The  Creative  Will 

I 

V  STUDIES  IN  THE  PHILOSOPHY 

AND  THE  SYNTAX  OF  ESTHETICS 


BY 

WILLARD  HUNTINGTON  WRIGHT 


NEW  YORK:     JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 

LONDON:   JOHN  LANE,  THE  BG OLE Y  HEAD 

MCMXVI 


COPYRIGHT,  igi6,  BY 
JOHN   LANE  COMPANY 


Press  of 

J.  J.  Little  &  Ives  Company 

New  York,  U.  S.  A. 


ay 


TO 
MY   BROTHER 


6tSS4.3 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arciiive 

in  2008  witii  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


littp://www.arcliive.org/details/creativewillstudOOwrigrich 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I.    ART  AND  LIFE 9 

II.    PROBLEMS  OF  ESTHETICS 89 

III.  ART  AND  THE  ARTIST    .......  179 

IV.  ART  AND  THE  INDIVIDUAL 237 


ART  AND  LIFE 


Art  and  the  Human  Body. — The  symbol  (in 
the  sense  of  philosophic  analogy)  of  aesthetic 
truth,  like  the  symbol  of  all  knowledge,  is  the 
human  body.  The  deeper  facts  of  art  and  the 
deeper  facts  of  life  (the  two  being  synonymous) 
can  be  tested  by  the  forces,  construction,  poise, 
plasticity,  needs,  laws,  reactions,  harmonies, 
growth,  forms  and  mechanism  of  the  body.  The 
body  is  the  microcosmos  of  all  life;  and  art,  in 
all  of  its  manifestations,  is,  in  its  final  analysis, 
an  interpretation  of  the  laws  of  bodily  rhythm 
and  movement.  The  perception  of  art  is  an  ac- 
tivity of  our  own  consciousness.  Art  cannot  ex- 
ist as  an  isolated  absolute:  in  order  to  be  per- 
ceived it  must  be  relative  to  ourselves.  Our  bod- 
ies are  our  only  basis  of  reaction.  Therefore 
art  must  accord  with  that  basis.  Furthermore, 
the  sources  and  the  end  of  nature  are  in  the  body. 
Only  the  aspects  of  nature  are  '^;:thouti  j>"iture 
is  not  discovered  by  way  of  the  aspect  fbtl/e  sym- 
bol, but  by  way  of  the  symbol  to  'che  aspoct. 
Representation  in  art  reveals  only  the  aspect  of 
life.  The  truth  must  emanate  fibm,  iin-4  belvoiri- 
fied  by,  the  body.  /;.      l[]\l     y//j[ 


12  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

Ordinary  and  Artistic  Expression. — All  ex- 
pression, in  the  common  sense,  is  the  result  of 
the  three  elements  of  consciousness — will,  intellect 
and  emotion.  All  human  expression  embodies,  in 
greater  or  lesser  degree,  these  three  elements.  In 
inventions,  the  will  plays  the  greatest  part.  In 
dancing,  emotion  is  predominant.  In  simple  en- 
gineering, intellect  controls  the  expression.  But 
in  each  of  these  activities  the  other  two  elements 
of  consciousness  are  present  in  some  degree.  In 
aesthetic  expression,  however,  each  of  these  three 
elements  plays  an  equal  part:  there  is  a  co-ordi- 
nation and  balance  of  all  the  functions  of  menta- 
tion. The  theme  is  chosen  by  the  emotion:  the 
intellect  determines  the  rhythm  or  construction; 
and  the  will  supplies  the  power  of  organisation. 
The  three,  working  in  conjunctive  harmony,  re- 
sult in  a  perfect  unity. 


Mit5;or  AND  *MijOR  Truths. — The  artist  sac- 
rifices the  minor  scientific  truths  to  his  creative 
invantiveness^  becaiise  he  is  ever  after  a  pro- 
foiind^r  truth  than  that  of  the  accuracy  of  de- 
tail''A  deep  divination  of  rhythm  is  of  greater 
moment  to  him  than  the  mere  processes  of  mus- 


ART  AND  LIFE  IS 

cular  control.  That  is  why  great  statues,  such 
as  Michelangelo's,  are  seldom  anatomically  cor- 
rect. The  artist  distorts  superficially  for  the 
sake  of  obtaining  a  genetic  proportion.  This  is 
why  shallow  critics  call  him  an  enemy  of  truth. 
They  see  only  the  ripples  on  the  surface:  they 
have  not  felt  the  underlying  forces.  The  artist 
is  an  interpreter  of  causes,  not  a  depicter  of  ef- 
fects. 

4. 

Natural  and  Esthetic  Stimuli. — ^Art,  which 
is  merely  an  external  stimulus,  can  be  com- 
municated to  the  brain  only  through  the  senses. 
It  differs  from  other  stimuli  only  in  degree  of 
perfection — that  is,  it  has  been  arranged  in  such 
a  manner  that  it  produces  a  complete  and  satis- 
fymg  reaction.  But  the  inward  activity  of  art, 
through  the  sense  media,  follows  the  same  physi- 
cal laws  as  does  a  natural  stimulus.  Only  in  the 
completeness  of  the  impression  does  it  distinguish 
itself  from  other  stimuli.  Once  this  fact  is  real- 
ised, the  determining  of  aesthetic  reactions  will 
cease  to  be  looked  upon  as  an  impossibility. 

5. 

Form  as  the  Basis  of  All  Beauty. — Tlie 
sense  of  beauty  is  always  related  to  form.     All 


14  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

colours  and  musical  notes  are  portions  of  a  form 
which  can  be  completed  by  other  colours  and 
notes.  Colours  either  advance  or  retreat  from 
the  eye;  and  notes  either  advance  or  retreat  from 
the  ear.  At  once  there  is  the  implication  of  a 
spatial  dimension  which  is  a  quality  of  form.  A 
note  or  a  colour  may  therefore  be  beautiful.  A 
series  of  notes  or  a  series  of  colours,  so  arranged 
as  to  give  the  impression  of  a  balanced  form  (a 
picture  or  a  melody),  may  be  doubly,  trebly  or 
a  hundredfold  as  beautiful  as  one  note  or  one 
colour.  The  beauty  increases  in  proportion  to 
the  perfection  of  the  form.  But  a  perfume  or  a 
texture  never  implies  beauty.  No  matter  how 
exquisite  a  perfume  may  be,  there  is  no  sense  of 
form  attached  to  it;  and  a  series  of  perfumes  is 
no  more  exquisite  than  the  most  exquisite  indi- 
vidual perfume  in  the  series.  Thus  with  texture 
in  its  tactile  (not  visual)  sense.  It  may  be  pleas- 
ing to  the  touch  in  many  different  ways — like 
velvet,  satin,  flesh,  polished  ivory,  or  a  warm 
or  cold  surface.  But  it  lacks  the  element  of 
beauty  because  it  does  not  give  the  sense  of  form ; 
nor  does  a  series  of  tactile  experiences  produce 
a  formal  conception.  Only  when  we  project  a  con- 
ception of  form  into  texture  (such  as  visualising 
a  human  body  when  we  touch  a  flesh-like  sub- 
stance), and  only  when  we  associate  a  perfume 
with  an  object  (calling  up  the  flower,  for  instance, 


ART  AND  LIFE  15 

for  which  the  perfume  may  be  named),  does  either 
one  of  them  give  us  an  emotion  of  beauty. 

6. 

The  Basis  of  Esthetic  Form.  —  Esthetic 
form,  in  order  to  become  emotion-producing, 
must  reflect  the  form  which  is  most  intimately  as- 
sociated with  our  sensitivities.  It  must  primarily 
be  physical.  The  modern  tendency  in  painting 
to  make  objects  abstract  and  to  divest  subject- 
matter  of  all  its  mimetic  qualities  has  led  some 
critics  and  painters  to  the  false  conclusion  that 
form  itself  is  unrelated  to  recognisable  phenom- 
ena. But  even  in  the  most  abstract  of  the  great 
painters  the  form  is  concrete.  In  the  broad  sense 
it  is  susceptible  of  geometrical  demonstration; 
and  its  intensity  is  in  direct  ratio  to  its  approxi- 
mation to  human  organisms.  In  fact,  there  are 
no  moving  forms  which  do  not  have  their  pro- 
totypes in  the  human  body  in  action. 


The  Masculine  and  the  Feminine  in  Art. — 
All  art,  like  life,  falls  into  either  the  masculine  or 
feminine  category.  In  order  to  bring  about  the 
greatest  art  the  form  and  order  (which  consti- 
tute the  masculine  side)  must  predominate.  Ob- 
jective ornament  and  external  beauty  (the  fem- 


16  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

inine  side)  must  be  only  the  inspiration  to  crea- 
tion. That  side  of  art  which  is  the  recording  of 
some  emotion  the  artist  has  experienced  so  in- 
tensely that  it  demands  concrete  expression,  is 
feminine,  because  it  is  merely  the  overflow  of  re- 
ceptivity into  objectivity.  Great  art  is  not  de- 
pendent on  a  specific  exterior  impulse.  It  grows 
abstractly  out  of  a  collection  of  assimilated  im- 
pressions. When  the  will  to  order  dominates  the 
expression,  these  impressions  take  plastic  form. 
The  desire  to  create  is  feminine;  the  ability,  mas- 
culine. All  purely  decorative  and  imitative  work 
is  feminine.  The  work  in  which  there  is  the  sub- 
jective emotion  of  order  and  harmony,  in  which 
the  effect  is  the  result  of  a  conscious  or  uncon- 
scious philosophic  cause,  is  masculine.  Tiepolo, 
Chopin  and  D'Annunzio  stand  for  the  feminine; 
Rembrandt,  Brahms  and  Goethe,  for  the  mascu- 
line. 

Beauty. — The  indiscriminate  manner  in^hich 
the  word  "beauty"  has  been  applied  to  art  has 
led  to  almost  infinite  confusion.  "Art  is  beauty," 
the  critics  proclaim,  and  continue:  "But  where> 
is  the  beauty  in  a  sordid  picture,  in  a  description 
of  a  vile  phase  of  life?"  They  imagine  that  thus 
they  have  disposed  of  the  question.  But  beauty 
in  life  is  one  thing;  beauty  in  art,  another.     In 


ART  AND  LIFE  17 

life  the  word  is  more  commonly  a  sjmonym  for 
"sexual,"  "pleasing,"  or  "desirable."  Thus  a 
woman's  face  may  be  beautiful:  a  flower  may  be 
beautiful.  But  such  beauty  has  nothing  to  do 
with  art.  Beauty  in  art  means  that  the  forms  are 
organised  in  such  a  way  as  to  produce  an  emo- 
tional reaction  of  satisfaction  or  completion.  The 
materials  out  of  which  these  forms  are  constructed 
may  be  ugly  from  the  standpoint  of  our  daily 
existence.  However,  they  must  be  put  together  in 
such  a  manner  that  their  appearance  or  effect 
wiU  function  abstractly  and  produce  in  the  spec- 
tator or  auditor  an  aesthetic  experience  unrelated 
to  those  associative  processes  which  the  objects, 
as  objects,  might  call  up.  This  form  must  even 
be  sufficiently  moving  to  overcome — namely,  to 
make  nugatory — the  effects  which  a  recognition 
of  subject-matter  would  ordinarily  give  birth  to. 
When  one  speaks  of  an  object  in  life  or  in  nature 
as  being  beautiful,  there  is  no  implication  that 
the  object  has  called  forth  an  aesthetic  response. 
If  it  were  possible  to  obtain  the  same  sense  of 
beauty  from  hfe,  there  would  be  no  necessity  for 
art ;  and  if  art  were  merely  a  means  of  re-experi- 
encing a  portion  of  life  during  the  absence  of 
that  particular  portion  of  life,  it  would  then,  of 
course,  be  necessary  to  reflect  in  art  those  things 
which  we  call  beautiful  in  life.  The  function  of 
art,  however,  is  not  to  supply  us  with  a  scene 


18  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

from  life  during  a  time  when  that  scene  is  inac- 
cessible— as  a  summer  sunset,  for  instance,  in 
winter,  or  a  description  of  romantic  adventures 
of  a  past  age.  Art  has  an  aesthetic  mission  of 
far  greater  and  profounder  import.  The  person 
who  demands  "beautiful"  objects  in  art  as  a 
means  to  enjoyment  is  one  who  has  not  yet  had 
the  greater  cesthetic  experience  of  beauty.  A 
book  may  deal  with  the  most  squalid  and  tragic 
phases  of  life  and  still  be  a  great  work  of  art 
fraught  with  compelling  artistic  beauty.  The 
highly  sensitive  man — the  man  capable  of  genuine 
appreciation  of  art — will  at  once  realise  that  a 
perfectly  organised  picture  of  an  utterly  ugly 
and  deformed  body  has  a  greater  moving  beauty 
than  has  the  sensual  attractiveness  of  what  he 
terms  a  "beautiful"  woman.  Is  there  not  more 
beauty  in  Diirer's  Three  Old  Women  than  in  Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds's  The  Three  Graces?  And  are 
not  almost  any  of  Goya's  witches  more  beautiful 
than  the  sensual  women  of  Rossetti?  Cezanne 
has  painted  still-lives  of  onions  and  cabbages 
which  are  more  emotionally  gratifying  than  a 
vase  of  roses.  The  pure  aesthetic  emotion  of 
beauty — produced  by  form — is  so  intense,  in  those 
capable  of  experiencing  it,  that  it  transcends 
and  negatives  all  the  petty  sensations  derived 
from  the  pleasing  (beautiful)  aspects  of  natural 
objects. 


ART  AND  LIFE  19 

9. 

Esthetic  Ugliness. — Just  as  the  word  "beau- 
tiful," in  aesthetic  terminology,  has  been  confused 
with  the  word  "desirable,"  so  is  the  word  "ugly" 
used  when  "undesirable"  is  meant.  -Esthetic  ug- 
liness, however — that  is,  the  reverse  of  aesthetic 
beauty — ^has  to  do,  not  with  the  aspects  of  a  work 
of  art,  but  with  the  difficulties  which  stand  in  the 
way  of  perception.  If,  for  instance,  the  process 
of  comparing,  weighing,  remembering,  adjusting 
and  reconstructing  is  made  difficult  by  the  dispro- 
portionate arrangement  of  lines,  tones,  forms, 
volumes  and  directions — then  we  experience,  not 
a  feeling  of  satisfaction  and  completion,  but  a 
feeling  of  dissatisfaction  and  incompleteness.  And 
it  is  this  falling  short  of  satisfaction  which  at- 
tests to  ugliness  in  art,  and  which  also  determines 
the  degree  of  ugliness.  Inability  to  find  aesthetic 
satisfaction  in  a  work  of  art  does  not  constitute 
ugliness:  herein  lies  an  obvious  pitfall  for  dilet- 
tanti. They  imagine  that,  because  they  cannot 
sound  the  subtle  or  complicated  form  in  a  cer- 
tain art  work,  ugliness  is  present.  They  have 
mistaken  chaos  (to  them)  for  the  reverse  of 
beauty.  Ugliness,  however,  is  not  the  negation  of 
beauty:  it  is  the  emotional  dissatisfaction  which 
follows  a  process  of  contemplation.  One  cannot 
say  that  a  work  of  art  is  ugly  unless  one  also  is 


20  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

able  to  discover  and  trace  the  beauty  in  complex 
art.  A  person  may  be  unable  to  receive  an  emo- 
tion of  satisfaction  from  a  painting,  for  instance ; 
but  this  does  not  mean  that  the  person  has  ex- 
perienced an  active  dissatisfaction.  One  must 
know  why  an  art  work  is  aesthetically  ugly,  and, 
in  order  to  know  why,  one  must  be  thoroughly 
and  profoundly  cognisant  of  aesthetic  form  and 
organisation.  Only  a  mathematician  can  detect 
an  error  in  a  trigonometrical  problem.  Those 
who  denounce  an  art  work  as  ugly  because  they 
cannot  understand  it — namely,  because  it  ap- 
pears chaotic  to  them — are  ignorant  pretenders. 
Ugliness  in  art  has  to  do  with  fundamental  laws 
of  form.  A  picture  of  a  most  charming  and 
exquisite  woman  may  be  aesthetically  ugly,  where- 
as many  of  our  most  beautiful  pictures  and 
statues  portray  unlovely  persons. 

10. 

The  Literal  and  the  Philosophic  Mind. — 
The  greatest  hindrance  to  progress  in  art  is  the 
lack  of  the  broadly  philosophic  mind  in  its  ranks. 
Such  a  mind  would  overlook  the  colossal  mass 
of  surface  detail  and  go  immediately  to  causes. 
The  presence  of  causes  is  ever  manifest;  but  in 
the  world  of  thought,  just  as  in  the  physical 
world,  the  larger,  more  important  and  more  ob- 


ART  AND  LIFE  21 

viously  placed  the  object,  the  greater  difficulty 
we  very  often  experience  in  putting  our  finger  on 
it.  If  we  may  call  the  underlying  causes  of  ex- 
istence facts,  then  the  most  difficult  thing  in  life 
to  grasp  is  facts.  We  deem  them  hidden  when, 
in  truth,  they  are  all  about  us. 

11. 

Greatness  and  Affectation. — Truly  great 
works  of  art,  like  truly  great  men,  are  with- 
out affectation,  for  the  essence  of  greatness  is 
indifference. 

12. 

Poise. — Poise  is  the  secret  of  all  great  art  in 
every  age.  Poise  necessarily  includes  contrast. 
It  is  the  etiquette  which  distinguishes  the  great 
works  of  an  epoch  from  the  merely  solid  or  ar- 
chitectonic works,  and  is  embodied  in  the  highest 
aesthetic  achievements  of  Egypt,  China,  India, 
Italy,  Flanders  and  France.  It  is  the  Iwing  qual- 
ity of  an  art  work,  because  it  is  that  which  gen- 
erates the  process  of  gratifying  symbiosis  in 
the  beholder.  Poise  implies  the  negative  as  well 
as  the  affirmative,  the  female  as  well  as  the  male. 
It  is  not  static  balance,  as  in  symmetry,  but  sym- 
metry galvanised  into  a  perpetual  cycle  of  move- 
ment.    It  embodies  all  the  laws  of  nature,   for 


22  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

it  states  the  eternal  placements  and  displace- 
ments, the  fluctuations  and  compensations  of  ma- 
teriality. If  the  work  of  art  containing  poise 
moves,  there  is  always  the  foil  of  the  static.  If 
the  work  glows,  there  is  the  relative  agent  of 
shadow.  If  the  work  has  harmony,  there  is  the 
counterbalance  of  discord.  In  all  the  statements 
of  poise,  the  opposites  are  likewise  true.  Poise 
is  the  underlying  cause ;  all  material  superimposi- 
tions  are  resultant  effects.  We  react  to  it  in  art 
because  it  sums  up  every  impulse  of  our  own 
physical  and  mental  lives. 

13. 

A  WoEK  OF  Art  as  an  Interdependent  Unit. 
• — No  part — however  minute  as  form — of  a  genu- 
ine piece  of  art  can  be  altered  without  necessi- 
tating the  alteration  of  the  entire  character  of 
the  work. 

14. 

Why  and  How  Art  Is  Created. — ^What  would 
be  the  purpose  of  any  art  if  it  did  not  give  us 
a  quality  of  emotion  different  from  what  we  re- 
ceive from  life.?  Yet,  we  are  eternally  hearing 
praises  of  this  or  that  artist's  approximation  to 
nature !  The  realistic  novel !  The  novel  that  gives 
us  an  accurate  record  of  material  existence !    Ah, 


ART  AND  LIFE  '      23 

that  mass  of  reportorial  detail !  And  the  painter 
whose  texture  is  lifelike !  Is  it,  then,  more  like 
the  original  than  the  original!  The  painter  of 
sunsets — "Oh,  I  have  seen  just  such  a  sunset  as 
the  one  in  that  picture !"  Writing — the  300-page 
phonograph!  Painting — the  competitor  of  col- 
our-photography! But  what  of  music?  Let  us 
thank  God  that  the  art  of  music  has  frightened 
off  the  "reahsts"  by  its  technicalities.  As  yet  it 
has  not  fallen  a  victim  to  those  critics  who  would 
turn  art  into  a  superficial  record  of  life.  But 
art  will  weather  the  onslaught.  The  "recorders 
of  nature"  will  pass  away.  The  great  works  of 
literature,  painting  and  music  will  remain,  for 
art  is  a  far  profounder  thing  than  realism  and 
texture.  It  is  the  outcome  of  the  imagination  of 
him  who  has  understood  and  experienced  life. 
His  mind  is  a  minute  filing  cabinet  where  the  rela- 
tivity of  all  experienced  items  reigns  supreme. 
So  perfectly  ordered  is^e  artist's  conception  of 
life,  so  well  is  it  understood,  that  in  his  dealing 
with  actions,  thoughts,  sounds,  colours,  rhythms 
and  lines,  his  expression  follows  the  natural  laws 
by  which  his  own  life  and  consciousness  have  been 
created.  And  so  accurately  does  he  know  the 
composite  value  of  his  art's  elements,  that  a 
"thought,  note  or  colour  is  never  called  upon  to 
play  a  part  incommensurate  with  its  capability. 
Out  of  his  mass  of  data  he  evolves,  by  combina- 


g4j  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

tions  ever  new,  a  microcosmos  in  which  events  are 
the  results  of  environment  and  the  effects  of 
profound  causes,  as  in  our  own  world.  Thus 
does  he  combine  familiar  things  in  new  ways  to 
accord  with  the  principles  of  aesthetics.  He  takes 
the  essence  of  his  special  world  of  sound,  colour 
or  document,  and  creates  a  new  world  of  them. 
Here  is  art's  method.  Here,  also,  is  its  raison 
d^etre, 

15. 

Two  Elements  of  Art. — Just  as  man  is  the 
result  of  the  conjimction  of  the  male  and  the 
female,  so  is  art  the  offspring  of  the  abstract 
medium  (colour,  sound,  document)  in  conjunc- 
tion with  the  concrete  symbol  (objects,  notes, 
actions).  Art  can  never  be  wholly  abstract  any 
more  than  it  can  be  wholly  imitative.  Its  mission 
is  certainly  not  to  make  us  think:  life  with  its 
infinite  variations  and  manifestations  presents  a 
richer  field  for  posing  problems.  Nor  is  its  mis- 
sion that  of  imitation:  such  a  procedure  would 
be  useless  and  sterile  of  emotional  results.  The 
middle  ground  between  abstract  thinking  and  imi- 
tation must,  then,  be  its  terrain.  Here  the  ab- 
stract comes  into  harmonic  conjunction  with  the 
concrete: — these  are  the  outermost  limits  of 
thought  and  sensation.  Neither  one  can  create 
alone.     Both  must  be  present,  like  cause  and  ef- 


ART  AND  LIFE  25 

feet.  The  cause  is,  of  necessity,  an  abstract 
force:  this  is  the  medium.  Out  of  it  must  come 
a  recognisable  world — not  in  the  sense  of  life, 
but  of  art. 

16. 

Fai.se  Exteriors. — Fantastic  and  eccentric 
surfaces  are  often  the  disguises  of  spurious  and 
worthless  works.  The  greatness  of  true  art,  like 
aristocracy  in  the  individual,  is  easily  recognised 
beneath  the  most  commonplace  integuments. 

Evolution  of  Intensity  in  Art  Media. — A 
desire  for  greater  emotional  intensity  has  much 
to  do  with  the  progress  of  art  and  especially  with 
the  strides  taken  by  it  in  the  last  forty  years. 
These  developmental  strides  are  undoubtedly  due 
to  the  increased  intensity  of  modern  life  as  evi- 
denced in  mechanics,  densely  populateil  aretes,  the, 
flooding  of  the  mind  with  a  vast  amount  of  Iv'nsiwl- ■ 
edge  of  events  through  the  perfecting-  of-  means 
for  collecting  news,  the  rapidity  'of  travel,-  the 
clangour  and  noise  of  modern  o'onimer<»e, .  the 
swiftly  moving  panorama  of  life,  Mv?  disfcoveritVs 
in  brilliant  artificial  lights,  etc.  Th^si  comfjleid' 
ties  and  intensifications  of  modern -life  ter.drto 
deaden  the  mind  (through  the  senses)  t«  the  siib^ 


26  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

tleties    of   minute   variations    of   greys,   the   mo- 
notonies of  simple  melodies  and  rhythms,  the  un- 
adorned verbiage  of  the  250,000-word  novel,  and 
similar  manifestations  of  a  day  when  febrile  liv- 
ing had   not   blunted   the   sensitivities.      All   art 
must  dominate  life;   and  this  is  as   true  to-day 
as  it  was  in  the  Middle  Ages.     The  modern  artist 
has  come  to  realise  that  the  media  of  art  have 
never  been  fully  sounded,  and  that  only  by  per- 
fecting the  purely  mechanical  side  of  his  art  can 
he  achieve  that  new  intensity  which  to-day  is  so 
needed.     To  be  sure,  great  art  will  always  remain 
great  so  long  as  the  human  organisms  remain  un- 
changed;  yet   the   demands   of  human   evolution 
must  be  met.    Consequently  the  means  of  art  have 
been  greatly  developed  through  research  and  ex- 
perimentation.    A  painter  of  to-day,  with  genius 
equal  to  that  of  a  Rubens,  could,  because  of  the 
new   cioiaur   knowledge,    create    compositions    far 
more   emotional   and   intense   than   those    of   the 
^'Flemrs'h*  ina'ster.      If  Richard   Strauss,   with   his 
'!linowl<^ge    of    the    modern    orchestra,    possessed 
,%he'  nragis'tra]    creative   vision   of   Beethoven,   he 
'.couid  double  , the  effect  of  the  latter's  music.     Jo- 
'^seph  Gonrad'{whom  few  have  recognised  for  his 
'Jsignificant  anarchy),  with  the  colossal  gifts  of  a 
^'B'QilmCy    ceuld    transcend    anything    yet    accom- 
'.plislied 'iiiT*  literature.       Imagine   Beethoven's    C- 
Minor  Symphony  played  behind  a  partition  which 


ART  AND  LIFE  m 

would  deaden  the  vibration  and  neutralise  the 
sound  after  the  manner  of  a  xylophone.  The  for- 
mal basis,  the  genius  of  its  construction,  would  re- 
main unchanged;  but  its  effect  on  us  would  be 
infinitely  weakened.  A  Cezanne  or  a  Renoir  re- 
produced in  black  and  white  is  merely  the  skele- 
ton of  the  original.  Read  a  short  condensation 
of  Madame  Bovary,  and  you  have  only  a  common- 
place and  not  extraordinary  idea.  Retell  Swin- 
burne in  prose,  and  the  effect  is  lost.  Thus  can 
be  realised  the  tremendous  importance  of  the 
purely  mechanical  side  of  art.  For,  after  all,  art 
can  be  judged  only  by  its  effect  upon  the  indi- 
vidual. It  is  for  this  reason  that  the  prescient 
modern  artists  are  experimenting,  some  with  new 
instruments  and  methods  of  orchestration,  some 
with  the  functionings  of  pure  colour,  and  some 
(though  fewer,  alas!  than  in  the  other  media) 
with  new  word  combinations  and  documentary 
rhythms. 

18. 

The  All-in-All  of  Art. — Every  enduring 
quality  in  great  art — the  art  of  Beethoven, 
Brahms,  Bach,  Mozart,  Michelangelo,  Rubens,  El 
Greco,  Giorgione,  Titian,  Balzac,  Flaubert, 
Goethe — can  be  explained  by  the  laws  of  form 
and  organisation.  One  artist  is  greater  than  an- 
other  solely   because   his   form   is   more   perfect. 


28  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

There  is  no  mysticism  in  art:  there  is  mysticism 
only  in  the  mind  of  the  ignorant  beholder,  audi- 
tor, or  reader. 

19. 

Spontaneity. — Spontaneity,  the  word,  as  ap- 
plied to  a  piece  of  art,  means  only  that  the  fin- 
ished work  has  a  fresh  and  enthusiastic  appear- 
ance, as  if  it  had  been  accomplished  with  ease. 
Spontaneity,  the  fact,  means  that,  no  matter  how 
long  or  how  painful  has  been  the  evolution  of  the 
created  work,  each  element  and  part  has  been 
done  with  a  sustained  interest.  The  whole  may 
have  been  changed  a  score  of  times  in  order  to 
achieve  the  vision.  Once  finished,  however,  the 
vision  lives  and  is  ever  young.  The  youth  of  it 
makes  it  appear  as  having  been  an  easy  achieve- 
ment. 

20. 

"The  Good,  the  True,  and  the  Beautiful." 
— When  you  bracket  "goodness"  and  "truth" 
with  "beauty,"  be  sure  you  do  not  mean  merely 
"righteousness"  and  "verity."  Art  has  nothing 
to  do  with  truth  in  the  sense  of  "verity"  or  "ac- 
curacy." It  is  allied  only  to  that  truth  which 
is  forever  enduring  and  which  is  the  result  of 
profound  causes  and  of  the  consciousness  of 
growth  and  development.     And  art  may  also  be 


ART  AND  LIFE  29 

the  measure  of  good,  but  not  that  petty  "good" 
which  is  the  offspring  of  ethics.  The  "good" 
which  art  teaches  is  the  eternal  justness  of  pro- 
portion, the  relative  value  of  all  human  actions. 

Art  and  the  Factors  of  Consciousness. — 
What  makes  one  type  of  art  a  greater,  a  more 
moving,  a  more  complete  and  satisfying  work 
than  another  type?  Why  is  a  symphony  greater 
than  a  song.^  Why  is  a  three-dimensioned  paint- 
ing greater  than  a  two-dimensioned  painting? 
Why  is  a  novel  greater  than  a  lyric?  The  rea- 
son lies  in  the  completeness  or  incompleteness  of 
the  series  of  stimuli  which  are  the  constituents 
of  an  art  work.  Art,  being  a  manifold  symbol 
of  life,  must,  in  order  to  be  final  and  wholly  in- 
terpretative, possess  all  the  factors  of  conscious- 
ness. These  factors  of  consciousness  are:  silhou- 
ette, volume,  rhythm,  poise,  movement,  tonality, 
and  colour;  and  their  implications,  such  as  direc- 
tion, time,  extension,  space,  etc.  Subtract  any 
one  of  these  factors  from  life,  and  the  intensity 
of  consciousness  decreases :  the  fullness  of  experi- 
ence is  curtailed.  Deduct  silhouette;  and  only 
the  emotion  of  volumnear  form  remains  on  the 
material  side  of  life.  Deduct  volume;  and  vis- 
ual life  becomes  a  flat  surface  without  poise.     De- 


30  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

duct  rhythm;  and  there  is  at  once  a  disintegra- 
tion of  parts — a  chaotic  world  with  neither  order 
nor  sequence.  Deduct  poise;  and  form  becomes 
silhouette:  life  is  then  only  a  rhythmic  decora- 
tion, like  a  coloured  design  on  a  screen,  lacking 
depth  and  substance.  Deduct  movement ;  and  the 
visual  world  is  dead  and  static,  incapable  of 
stimulating  the  empathic  imagination:  all  mim- 
icry ceases,  and,  as  a  result,  all  processes  of  per- 
ception are  at  a  standstill.  Deduct  tonality ;  and 
every  colour  is  of  a  similar  purity:  there  are  no 
shadows  and  no  degrees  of  intensity.  Deduct  col- 
our ;  and  the  vision  is  black,  white  and  grey,  with 
only  perspective  to  control  values  and  distances. 
Only  when  the  vision  of  man  embodies  every  one 
of  these  factors,  properly  functioning  and  co-or- 
dinated, is  there  the  complete  experience  of  full 
and  intense  consciousness.  In  normal  life  they 
are  balanced  into  a  fluid  and  volatile  whole;  and, 
since  art  is  a  microcosm  which  reveals  and  inter- 
prets the  entirety  of  life,  these  factors  must  be 
co-related  and  organised  in  art  as  well.  Con- 
sequently, in  proportion  as  art  fails  to  embody 
them,  does  it  lose  its  efficacy  as  a  unified  and  en- 
tire stimulus.  The  silhouette  (the  delimitation  of 
volume  which  results  in  form)  must  be  balanced 
as  to  surface  outline.  Volume  (the  extension  of 
planar  masses  into  three  dimensions)  must  be 
balanced  as  to  depth  as  well  as  laterally.    Rhythm 


ART  AND  LIFE  31 

must  play  its  relative  part  in  the  construction  of 
poise  by  way  of  both  silhouette  and  volume. 
Movement  must  accord  with  the  rhythm  conferred 
on  form.  Tonality  must  be  balanced  in  its  com- 
plete scale  from  white  to  black.  And  colour  must 
represent  the  just  balance  of  its  spectral  ex- 
tremes. Furthermore,  each  one  of  these  factors 
must  be  balanced  with,  and  related  to,  every  other 
factor  so  that  the  sum  equals  the  mean  of  all  the 
factors'  extreme  fluctuability  or  polar  extension. 
A  work  of  art  from  which  any  one  of  these  fac- 
tors is  lacking,  no  matter  how  perfect  it  may 
be  within  the  boundary  of  its  limitations,  cannot 
be  as  great  (namely,  as  completely  satisfying,  as 
entire  and  allrinclusive  as  an  emotional  stimulus) 
as  a  work  which  possesses  all  these  factors  per- 
fectly related.  A  song  (melody  or  homophony) 
is  without  depth  and  poise,  whereas  a  polyphonic 
symphony  contains  not  only  silhouette  and 
rhythm  but  (three-dimensional)  form  and  poised 
movement.  A  lyric  is  based  on  silhouette  and 
rhythm;  but  a  novel  embodies  the  qualities  of 
a  lyric  and  carries  them  into  profounder  emo- 
tional fields.  During  late  years  there  has  been 
a  strong  tendency  on  the  part  of  certain  artists 
to  develop  one  or  two  esthetic  factors  and  to  ex- 
aggerate them  at  the  expense  of  others.  The 
result,  in  each  instance,  is  an  overbalanced  and 
incomplete   art — an  art  which  docs  not  evoke  a 


S2  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

unique  aesthetic  reaction.  Only  in  ratio  to  an  art 
work's  approach  to  a  complete  co-ordination  of 
all  the  factors  of  consciousness,  is  it  great. 
Herein  lies  the  explanation  of  the  relative  merits 
of  different  art  types. 


Beauty  and  Utility. — The  very  nature  of 
beauty  is  the  reverse  of  utility.  An  art  work 
may  have  incidentally  a  utilitarian  value;  but 
such  a  value  does  not  enhance  its  merit  as  art. 
Certain  critics  and  teachers  strive  to  combine 
usefulness  and  beauty,  but  the  most  they  can 
do  is  to  establish  a  synchronous  existence  of 
these  two  antipodal  conditions.  The  word  "beau- 
tiful" has  no  synonomous  relation  to  the  words 
"good,"  "efficient,"  "practical,"  or  "necessary." 
The  most  useful  things  in  life  rarely  call  forth 
our  visual  admiration.  On  the  other  hand,  we  ad- 
mire an  object  as  a  pleasing  sight  without  inquiry 
into  its  practical  benefits.  Even  if  we  are  aware 
of  an  object's  usefulness,  we  forget  the  fact  the 
moment  we  apply  the  adjective  "beautiful"  to  it. 
Beauty  implies  outlook;  utility  implies  a  practi- 
cal process  of  mind. 


Art    as    a    Philosophic    Medium. — An    igno- 
rance of  aesthetics  has  been  the  chief  handicap  of 


ART  AND  LIFE  33 

our  philosophers.  Their  silence  on  this  subject 
unfortunately  gives  impetus  to  the  theory  of  "art 
for  art's  sake."  The  implication  is  that  art  is 
a  pastime — something  superimposed  on  life;  that 
it  has  no  organic  place  in  the  determining  of  so- 
cial and  philosophical  values.  Nothing  could  be 
further  from  the  truth.  Art  is  not  a  manifesta- 
tion of  life  in  the  sense  of  "effect."  Let  our  phi- 
losophers consider  art  as  a  cause,  as  a  matrix  for 
their  postulates;  and  they  will  discover  that  art 
is  not  seldom  prophetic.  Taine  and  Emerson  are 
conspicuous  among  the  very  few  thinkers  to  whom 
the  "philosophy"  of  art  does  not  mean  merely  the 
"ethics"  or  the  "sentiments"  of  art.  For  them 
there  exists  a  profound  relationship  between  the 
principles  of  art  and  the  principles  of  life. 


Science  and  Creation. — The  artist  cannot 
go  to  the  science  of  aesthetics  to  learn  how  he 
may  produce  beauty  any  more  than  the  inventor 
can  learn  from  a  text-book  of  mechanics  the  se- 
crets of  a  new  and  non-existent  machine.  The 
beauty  in  art  can  only  be  corroborated  and  ana- 
lytically explained  by  the  science  of  aesthetics, 
just  as  a  new  mechanical  invention  can  only  be 
tested  and  verified  by  mechanical  laws.  Science 
accounts  for  things  that  are:  it  does  not  create 
things   that  are  not. 


34  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

Esthetic  Creation. — ^All  creation  in  the  arts 
is  the  result  of  some  impetus  received  either  from 
objective  nature  or  from  a  mental  process.  This 
holds  true  for  even  so  abstract  an  art  as  music. 
In  many  modem  compositions  the  name  of  the 
work  is  the  idea  from  which  the  work  sprang, 
or  which  the  composer  has  clothed  in  sound.  Such 
works  not  infrequently  possess  a  psychological 
interest  because  the  main  idea  of  the  theme  (with 
all  its  stress  and  strain,  its  human  element,  its 
joy  and  sadness,  its  progress  and  climax)  has 
been  translated,  as  it  were,  from  its  inceptive 
form,  Hterary  or  poetic,  onto  the  plane  of  music. 
It  can  readily  be  seen  how  far  afield  such  ideas 
might  lead  a  composer:  indeed,  in  the  majority  of 
instances,  they  le4d  him  to  create  such  juvenile 
works  as  Vprogramme^-and  "descriptive"  pieces, 
■or  oth^  illustrative  compositions  wherein  the  mu- 
sic, which  alone  should  be  felt  and  thought,  be- 
coriies  the  handmaiden  of  poetry,  anecdote  and 
drama.  Before  the  day  of  the  subject  in  music 
the  creative  impetus  was  the  set  form  awaiting 
the  composition.  This  form  was  either  rigid  or 
plastic,  according  to  the  composer's  tempera- 
ment or  will ;  but  in  either  case  it  was,  neverthe- 
less, a  definite  mould  into  which  the  artist  com- 
pressed his  expression.     Such  formal  restrictions 


ART  AND  LIFE  35 

resulted  in  so-called  abstract  music,  for  there  was 
little  leeway  for  the  free  play  of  the  composer's 
inspiration.      Before  that  even,  music  was   more 
largely  an  experiment,  an  adventure  of  the  imagi- 
nation; and  the  field  of  activity  which  spread  be- 
fore the  composer  was  so  great  and  unrestricted 
that,  no  matter  which  course  he  pursued,  he  was 
heading  toward  achievement.     However,  in  those 
days  it  was  not  so  much  the  direction  taken  (since 
the  objective  was  infinitely  wide)    as  it  was   the 
distance  covered.     Painting,  on  the  other  hand, 
was  different.     This  art,  unlike  music  and  litera- 
ture, extends  itself  physically  into  space  alone. 
Therefore  it  could  not  be  compressed  into   any 
definite  form,  like  that  of  the  sonnet,  the  novel, 
the  essay,  the  four-part  sonata,  the  rondo,  or  the 
fugue.     Its  form  is  merely  delimited  by  the  size 
of  the  canvas  chosen:  there  can  be  no  linear  di- 
vision or  zone  for  the  application  of  colour,  which 
would  be  for  the  painter  what  the   fugue  form, 
for  instance,  is  for  the  musician.     Consequently, 
until  recently,  the  painter  has  clung  tenaciously 
to  objective   nature,  using  it   as   an  impulse   to 
the  organisation  of  hnes,  forms  and  tones.     But 
to-day  the  later  schools  of  painting  are  choosing 
for  their  inspiration  ideas  which  have  the  quality 
of  time  extension,  but  which  can  be  presented  as 
a  simultaneous  vision.     The  artist  visuahses  na- 
ture's forces  and  the  effects  of  these  forces,  and 


36  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

then  translates  them,  dynamically  organised,  into 
concrete  expression.  Thus,  like  all  things  which 
grow  naturally  from  a  nucleus,  art  must  also 
start  burgeoning  from  a  seed-idea. 

26. 

Effect  of  Great  Aet. — Great  art,  whether 
music,  literature  or  painting,  is  great  because  of 
its  ability  to  permeate  every  part  of  the  specta- 
tor's being.  It  cannot  be  preponderantly  sen- 
sual or  preponderantly  mental:  it  must  have  a 
perfect  balance  of  both  the  emotional  and  intel- 
lectual. It  is  this  grasp  of  every  faculty  of  the 
beholder  that  brands  it  a  complete  gamut  of  stim- 
uH. 

Democratic  Art. — Those  whose  ideal  is  a 
democratised  art,  and  who  regard  art  as  the  ex- 
pression of  the  people,  lay  much  emphasis  on  the 
folk-songs,  folk-dances  and  peasant  art,  insisting 
that  they  are  the  outgrowth  of  the  common  crea- 
tive instinct.  These  modern  enthusiasts  would 
turn  over  into  the  hands  of  the  general  public 
the  creation  of  beauty.  To  this  end  they  en- 
deavour, from  time  to  time,  to  rehabilitate  folk- 
songs, folk-dances  and  the  handicrafts,  and,  by, 
this  method,  to  re-awaken  a  supposititious  com- 


ART  AND  LIFE  37 

munal  art  spirit.  The  dance,  however,  is  a  primi- 
tive and  very  limited  means  of  expressing  rhythm ; 
and  it  has  already  been  embodied  in  other  and 
profounder  arts.  The  handicrafts  were  never  an 
aesthetic  expression  of  the  community.  The  de- 
signs used  by  the  old  craftsmen  were  the  work  of 
a  few  sensitive  individuals,  and  were  copied  and 
altered  (generally  to  their  detriment)  by  inartis- 
tic workmen  who  were  no  doubt  unconscious  of 
the  linear  and  formal  grace  of  the  objects  they 
laboured  on.  And  as  to  folk-songs :  What  proof 
is  there  that  these  melodies  were  the  simple  ex- 
pression of  the  people?  There  is  no  such  proof, 
save  the  most  superficial  evidence.  But  there  is 
ample  proof  to  the  contrary,  both  of  a  psycho- 
logical and  documentary  nature.  However,  it  is 
not  necessary  to  carry  the  argument  onto  a  philo- 
sophic plane:  research  alone  will  scotch  the  be- 
lief in  a  democratic  art.  Many  of  the  best  and 
most  famous  so-called  folk-songs  of  Germany 
were  actually  written  by  Friedrich  Silcher,  who 
was  not  born  until  1789.  In  France  there  are 
few  authentic  "folk-songs"  which  cannot  be  traced 
back  to  four  or  five  specific  models ;  and  every 
one  of  these  models  is  a  church  song.  Inciden- 
tally, the  models  are  more  regular,  and  correctly 
scored,  indicating  that  they  are  the  perfect  pat- 
terns by  which  the  so-called  folk-songs  were 
crudely  and  inaccurately  cut.     Also,  all  the  fa- 


38  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

mous  Russian  folk-songs  have  recognisable  paral- 
lels in  church  songs,  and — what  is  even  more  sig- 
nificant— they   end   with   the    notes    (sHghtly    al- 
tered) of  the  Greek  church's  ritualistic  "Amen." 
(This  termination  is  also  found  in  the  very  old 
French     folk-songs.)       Marguerite's     ballad     in 
Faust,  There  Is  a  King  in  Thule,  Bizet's  suite  to 
Daudet's   VArlesienne,    the   second  movement   of 
Tschaikovsky's  Fourth  Symphony  and   the  first 
movement  of  his  First  Symphony,  and  the  themes 
in  Liszt's  Preludes — to  take  but  a  few  well-known 
examples  of  modern  music  in  which  the  folk-song 
has  been  utilised — all  have  undeniable  parallels  in 
church  music.     In  fact,  there  is  a  preponderance 
of  evidence  pointing  to  the  fact  that  the  so-called 
early  folk-music  was  originally  composed  by  the 
priests  who,  during  the  tenth  and  eleventh  cen- 
turies, represented  the  most  cultured  and  educated 
men   of  the  time.      Practically   all   of   the  music 
heard  by  the  peasants  and  the  common  people  of 
that  day  was  in  the  churches;  and  there  is  Httle 
doubt  that  it  was  this  church  music,  imperfectly 
memorised  by  the  peasants  and,  in  the  course  of 
time,  changed  slightly,  vulgarised  and  given  topi- 
cal and  crass  words,  that  has  come  down  to  us 
as  folk-songs.     The  same  method  was  pursued  by 
the  peasants  in  their  graphic  arts:  that  is,  they 
copied  the  designs   of  the  church's  fixtures   and 
decorations,  sometimes  accurately,  in  which  event 


ART  AND  LIFE  39 

their  art  was  good;  but  more  often  inaccurately. 
Practically  all  popular  negro  and  "Hawaian" 
music  is  crude  imitation  of  Methodist  hymns. 
In  countries  where  the  influence  of  the  church 
was  not  felt,  as  in  Africa  and  North  America,  we 
find  a  very  inferior  form  of  folk-song,  relying 
largely  on  tempo  and  rhythm;  and  an  inferior 
graphic  expression  which  rarely  goes  beyond  the 
most  simple  order  and  symmetry.  But  even  in 
these  cases  it  is  unbelievable  that  the  melodies 
and  designs  were  not  the  production  of  the  few 
superior  individuals.  A  study  of  tribal  condi- 
tions in  places  where  the  most  primitive  customs 
are  still  adhered  to  reveals  the  fact  that  there 
are  certain  members  of  the  tribe  who  create  and 
perpetuate  all  the  "artistic"  activities. 


Enduring  Vitality  of  Great  Art. — Why  is  it 
that,  as  a  general  rule,  the  really  great  art  of 
the  past  has  come  down  to  us  to-day  with  a  halo 
upon  it?  It  is  not  because  the  world  has  under- 
stood this  great  art, — the  reasons  the  world  gives 
for  reverencing  it  are  irrelevant.  But  it  is  be- 
cause all  exalted  creative  expression  has  a  power 
of  unity  which  is  capable  of  pushing  through  the 
barriers  of  aesthetic  ignorance  and  of  making  its 
vitality  felt. 


40  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

29. 

Harmony  of  Thought  and  Emotion  the 
Test  of  Great  Art. — What  man  could  say  that 
great  constructive  thinking  which  results  in 
beauty  as  rich  and  palpable  as  Greek,  Italian  and 
Gothic  architecture  and  as  sequentially  lyrical  as 
Beethoven's  Fifth  Symphony  is  not  as  keen  a  joy 
as  physical  ecstasy?  The  ultimate  effect  of  great 
art  lies  in  the  mind  where  it  has  been  introduced 
by  way  of  the  senses.  And  the  acid  test  of  art's 
puissance  is  that  the  heart  and  mind — the  male 
and  female  elements  of  human  life — vibrate  in 
harmony,  forming  a  perfect  conjunction. 

30. 

Evolution  of  Art. — Art  began  as  imitation, 
then  progressed  to  pure  decoration.  In  this  lat- 
ter phase  it  constituted  an  organ  whose  purpose 
it  was  to  fulfil  a  given  function :  it  was  dependent 
on  environment  for  its  complete  destiny.  From 
this  condition  art  evolved  into  organisations,  into 
plastically  complete  units,  functioning  within  and 
by  its  own  powers,  independent  of  its  environ- 
ment. In  this  last  step  toward  total  freedom 
from  exterior  aid  or  hindrance,  a  work  of  art 
became  a  self-generating  cosmos,  and  as  such 
took  on  its  deep  philosophic  character. 


ART  AND  LIFE  41 


31. 


Modern  Tendency  Towards  Abstraction. — 
During  those  periods  when  the  mind  was  gov- 
erned by  sensual  and  emotional  urgings,  the  im- 
age in  art  was  in  its  ascendency.  (The  reign  of 
Louis  XIV  produced  such  painters  as  Watteau, 
Le  Brun,  de  la  Fosse,  Largilliere  and  Lancret.) 
But  when  the  intellectual  supplanted  the  syba- 
ritic the  image  was  destroyed,  for  all  general  and 
abstract  reasoning  tends  toward  the  generalising 
of  the  aesthetic  vision.  Philosophy  and  art  de- 
velop hand  in  hand.  The  tendency  of  emphasising 
generalities  to-day  and  of  indulging  in  abstract 
thought  accounts  for  the  direction  which  is  be- 
ing taken  by  art.  Modern  life,  being  abstract  in 
its  philosophical  activities,  is  producing  an  ab- 
stract art. 

Chinese  and  Japanese  Art. — It  is  indicative 
of  a  superficial  aesthetic  sense  that  one  should  hold 
the  Japanese  artists  in  high  esteem,  while  accord- 
ing the  Chinese  secondary  consideration.  The 
Chinese  represent  the  really  great  art  of  the 
East:  they  were  the  true  masters  of  linear  form 
in  the  Orient,  as  well  as  the  organisers  of  volume 
expressed  by  tone  and  line.  Furthermore,  they 
were  the  far-East  artists  who  embodied  most  in- 


42  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

tensely  the  philosophic  spirit  of  their  nation.  The 
Japanese  painters  were  at  best  sensitively  two- 
dimensional,  and  seldom  revealed  the  arriere 
pemee  for  purely  aesthetic  emotion.  It  is  a  long 
step  between  the  little  more  than  decorative  souci 
of  a  Hokusai  and  the  profoundly  thoughtful  and 
conscious  artistry  of  a  Ririomin. 

33. 

The  Secret  op  Great  Art. — Beethoven  once 
said,  "I  always  have  a  picture  in  my  mind  when 
composing,  and  follow  its  lines.  I  see  and  hear 
the  picture  in  all  its  extent  and  dimensions  stand 
before  my  mind  like  a  cast."  These  words  are  a 
key  to  the  secret  of  all  great  art.  And  they  in- 
dicate the  actual  formal  conception  which  gives 
birth  to  even  the  greatest  music. 

34. 

Acnalogies  Between  Creative  Impulses. — 
The  character  is  to  literature  and  the  motif  is  to 
music  what  the  line  or  form  is  to  painting.  A 
literary  character  is  arbitrarily  chosen  by  the 
writer ;  and,  in  a  general  way,  the  character's  in- 
dividual traits  and  temperament  are  conceived  in 
the  writer's  mind  before  the  work  of  projecting 
him  through  the  numerous  influences  of  his  life 


ART  AND  LIFE  43 

is  undertaken.  Thus,  in  the  parlance  of  the 
painter,  a  literary  character  is  a  form  with  indi- 
vidual outlines,  weight  and  colour.  Every  force 
with  which  he  comes  in  contact  during  the  un- 
folding of  the  narrative  will  in  some  way  modify 
his  disposition,  as  well  as  change  the  trend  of  his 
environment.  In  like  manner,  the  painter  arbi- 
trarily chooses,  as  the  noyau  of  his  canvas,  a  cer- 
tain form  whose  influence  is  imprinted  over  the 
whole  work;  and  upon  this  form  the  sequential 
lines,  colours  and  rhythms  will  have  a  determin- 
ing and  directing  influence.  Likewise,  a  musical 
composer  chooses  a  motif — a  small  musical 
phrase  that  he  has  fixed  upon;  and  out  of  this 
simple  motif  will  grow  a  great  edifice  of  musical 
form  constructed  by  succeeding  themes,  counter- 
statements,  development  sections  and  recapitula- 
tions— all  influencing  the  original  motif,  creating 
a  sound  environment,  and  finally  bringing  about  a 
consummation  in  the  coda.  Thus  the  methods  of 
all  great  art  (no  matter  what  its  medium)  have 
the  same  mental  problems  with  which  to  deal. 
For  the  painter  there  is  the  shifting  of  directions 
and  masses:  for  the  musician  there  are  the  natu- 
ral re-adjustments  of  succeeding  sounds:  for  the 
writer  there  is  the  re-creation,  from  ideas  and 
actions,  of  a  new  and  vital  ground-plan.  In  all 
the  arts  the  creative  impulse  begins  with  an  ar- 
bitrary  selection,   passes   through  a  natural  de- 


44  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

velopment  of  the  chosen  motif,  line  or  idea,  and 
terminates  in  a  formal  climax.  The  vicissitudes  of 
a  literary  character  amid  good  and  bad  environ- 
ments are  identical  with  those  undergone  by  a 
line  or  a  motif.  In  each  case  the  initial  shape 
passes  through  the  calm  and  turbulence  of  a  com- 
plete existence  before  it  comes  to  rest.  Any 
great  work  of  art  is,  therefore,  the  psychological 
history  of  an  individual. 

35. 

Balzac  and  Zola. — Some  critics  have  said  that 
even  Balzac's  minor  characters  have  genius.  In 
other  words,  they  are  intensely  living,  true,  solid. 
On  the  other  hand,  many  condemn  Balzac  for 
his  long  genealogies  and  descriptions.  But  let 
these  latter  critics  subtract  from  Balzac  that 
which  they  dislike ;  and  his  characters  would  have 
no  more  life  than  the  characters  of  Zola.  But, 
since  Zola  possesses  a  far  greater  mass  of  detail 
than  Balzac,  why  are  not  his  characters  solid  .^^ 
Why  are  they  devoid  of  genius?  The  answer  is 
that  Zola  works  from  the  effect  to  the  cause, 
while  Balzac,  a  profound  philosopher,  follows  the 
methods  of  nature  and  lets  the  effect  result  from 
a  bringing  together  of  fundamental  causes  and 
life  forces.  Balzac  creates  first  a  terrain  with 
an  environmental  climate ;  and  the  creatures  which 


ART  AND  LIFE  45 

spring  from  this  soil,  and  which  are  a  part  of 
it,  create  certain  unescapable  conditions,  social, 
economic,  and  intellectual.  Furthermore,  the  gen- 
erations of  characters  that  follow  are,  in  turn,  the 
inevitable  offsprings  of  this  later  soil,  fashioned 
by  all  that  preceded  them.  Zola  merely  records 
a  mass  of  effect-data — the  results  of  causes  of 
which  he  is  ignorant.  In  other  words,  he  imi- 
tates in  minute  detail  what  he  sees  and  hears. 
He  gives  us  a  picture  which  is  comprehensively 
representative  of  a  milieu.  After  reading  him  we 
think,  "What  an  eyesight!  What  ears!  What 
an  accurate  depiction  of  objective  reality!"  But 
when  we  have  read  Balzac,  the  colossal  literary 
architect,  we  think,  "I  have  lived  the  life  of  that 
character.  I  have  felt  that  milieu.  I  have  been, 
not  an  onlooker,  but  an  actor  in  the  drama.  I 
have  had  an  experience,  and  it  has  become  part 
of  me."  Here  we  have  exemplified  the  two  kinds 
of  art — that  which  we  feel  to  be  form  (as  in  a 
Michelangelo),  and  that  which  we  recognise  as 
an  excellent  replica  of  form  (as  in  a  Raphael). 

36. 

Relation  of  Art  Formula  to  Life. — Napo- 
leon had  the  plastic  mind  of  a  great  artist.  Here- 
in lay  his  power  and  his  success :  "J^  m'engage 
part  out,  et  puis  je  vols": — is  this  not  also  the 


46  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

cardinal  formula  of  assthetic  creation?  Further- 
more, does  it  not  embody  the  secret  of  all  suc- 
cessful living? 

37. 

The  Reason  for  Music's  Intense  Physical 
Appeal. — Conversation  is  the  greatest  universal 
medium  of  transmitting  personal  emotions  such 
as  anger,  sorrow,  joy,  discouragement,  etc.,  and  it 
invariably  makes  use  of  the  same  tones  and  inflec- 
tions in  each  emotional  instance.  We  weep  and 
laugh  in  the  same  manner  that  millions  weep  and 
laugh.  All  tonal  inflections  are  immediately  rec- 
ognised for  what  they  indicate,  whether  or  not 
the  language  in  which  they  are  couched  is  under- 
stood; and  they  produce  an  analogous  emotional 
state  in  the  sympathetic  listener.  Conversation 
itself  is  an  intensified  expression  of  nature's 
sounds.  Our  method  of  expressing  joy  or  sad- 
ness or  lunacy  or  strength  or  despair  or  depres- 
sion is  similar  to  certain  noises  in  nature — the 
rippling  of  streams,  the  fall  of  rain,  the  sighing 
of  wind,  the  crash  of  thunder,  the  washing  of 
waves,  the  shrieks  of  tornadoes.  Our  method  of 
expressing  emotions,  however,  is  more  concen- 
trated, of  greater  insistence,  and  possessed  of  a 
purer  timbre.  Music  is  a  still  higher  and  purer 
intensification  of  natural  sounds,  and  is  based  on 
the  inflections  and  intonations  of  the  human  voice ; 


ART  AND  LIFE  47 

and  because  it  is,  as  it  were,  a  twice  purified  me- 
dium, its  effect  is  highly  emotional  in  the  physical 
sense.  Literature  translates  its  ideas  through  the 
mind  into  terms  of  the  body:  painting  deals  with 
a  medium  whose  force  is  dependent  on  etherial 
vibrations,  and  the  intellect  must  therefore 
project  itself  into  a  picture;  but  in  music,  based 
as  it  is  on  air  waves  which  are  consciously  physi- 
cal, the  sound  engulfs  one  almost  like  streams  of 
water. 

38. 

Inspirational  Bases  of  Art. — Although  mu- 
sic raises  the  world  of  noise  to  the  purity  of 
sound  and  condenses  it  into  a  small  number  of  ab- 
solute notes  out  of  which  every  musical  effect  is 
obtained,  music  rarely  goes  to  natural  sounds  for 
its  formal  inspiration.  That  is  to  say,  mu- 
sic seldom  receives  its  creative  impulse  from  bird 
calls,  winds,  conversations,  and  the  like.  In  the 
construction  of  a  musical  composition,  while  any 
inspiration  is  permissible,  the  greater  composers 
go  to  ideas  for  the  conception  of  their  musical 
edifices — to  ideas  which  symbolise  actions  (mental 
or  physical)  and  which  imply  a  deroulement  into 
time.  In  painting  the  impulse  to  create  is  simi- 
lar. Putting  aside  those  pictures  which  are  really 
no  more  than  a  replica  of  sculpture  extended  over 
a  flat  surface  and  given  a  seeming  depth  by  the 


48  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

use  of  line,  painting,  analogously  with  music, 
raises  the  world  of  colour  to  the  purity  of  tint 
and  condenses  it  into  twelve  chromatic  notes  and 
their  derivatives  out  of  which  every  graphic  ef- 
fect is  obtained.  Therefore,  just  as  music,  in 
translating  the  noises  into  the  realm  of  pure 
sound,  seeks  inspiration,  not  in  sound  itself,  but 
in  idea  and  form  (which  become  synonymous), 
so  should  painting  go  for  its  inspiration,  not  to 
objective  coloured  nature  (though  this  source  also 
may  be  permissible),  but  to  generating  ideas. 
Already  there  are  indications  that  painting  is 
striving  to  divorce  itself  from  the  merely  natural- 
istic, or  sculpturesque,  and  is  seeking  the  realms 
of  formal  purity  after  the  manner  of  music.  In 
its  application,  however,  painting  will  always 
make  use  of  delimited  form  just  as  music  will  al- 
ways utilise  sound.  And  these  inevitable  partial- 
objectivities  will  keep  creative  expression  an- 
chored to  a  firm  and  terre-a-terre  foundation.  In 
the  same  way  that  music  has  progressed  from 
naturalistic  imitations  to  actional  ideas  (the  re- 
sult of  which  is  tonal  form),  painting  is  progress- 
ing from  sculpturesque  objectivity  to  ideas  which 
symbolise  form. 


The  Exemption  of  Art. — Since  all  emotion  is 
a  mechanistic   reaction  to  stimuli,  and  since  no 


ART  AND  LIFE  49 

change  of  emotion  is  possible  without  correspond- 
ing chemical  and  physiological  changes  in  the 
body,  why  should  one  deny  the  possibility  of  sci- 
entific analysis  as  applied  to  art? 

40. 

Science  and  Taste. — Important  aesthetic  con- 
clusions are  always  arrived  at  through  instinctive 
selection  by  highly  sensitive  artists.  Science  can- 
not produce  great  art.  Taste  comes  first.  Sci- 
ence follows  and,  through  experimentations  and 
deductions,  verifies  good  taste. 

41. 

Art  and  Catholicism. — ^We  hear  much  of 
art's  debt  to  Catholicism,  but,  in  the  strict  mean- 
ing of  the  word,  there  is  no  debt  of  either  one 
to  the  other.  From  the  union  both  have  profited 
enormously;  and  it  is  the  world  at  large  that 
is  indebted  to  the  combination.  There  is  no 
doubt  that  the  Catholic  Church  has  done  more 
than  any  other  one  institution  to  disseminate  the 
beauties  of  art,  but,  in  so  doing,  it  has  added 
greatly  to  its  own  dignity  and  nobility  and  in- 
creased its  power.  For  centuries  the  early 
Church  commissioned  artists  to  make  of  its 
shrines    and    cathedrals    places    whose    influence 


50  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

would  be  one  of  calm  beauty  and  beatific  har- 
mony, places  wherein  no  febrile  thoughts  from 
the  outside  world  could  long  remain  active ;  and 
the  artists  of  the  day,  religiously  inclined  and 
introspective,  created  works  of  associative 
beauty,  of  deep  and  peaceful  restfulness,  of  still 
and  cool  serenity.  Churches  became  sanctuaries 
where  persons  coming  in  from  the  sunny  street, 
grey  with  shine  and  noisy  with  mundane  activi- 
ties, could  sit  in  perfect  peace  of  mind,  their 
eyes  on  the  passionless  faces  of  saints  and  vir- 
gins and  on  the  subdued  lines  and  colours  of  mo- 
tionless compositions.  The  churches  were  well 
patronised,  either  from  political  or  devotional 
motives,  by  both  the  populace  and  the  nobles  who 
spent  much  time  within  their  cool  half-light. 
These  periods  of  perfect  rest  in  surroundings 
fraught  with  an  almost  perfect  harmony  of  mass 
and  detail,  could  not  help  but  have  a  salutary 
effect  upon  man's  mind ;  and  slowly,  through  gen- 
erations, that  influence  became  part  of  man's  in- 
stinctive nature.  His  thoughts  became  more  or- 
dered; his  philosophical  outlook  became  clearer 
and  more  natural;  and  his  taste  grew  into  a  de- 
mand, for  harmoniously  proportioned  architec- 
ture. The  ruling  classes,  absorbing  aesthetic  in- 
fluences more  quickly  than  the  less  sensitive  popu- 
lace, turned  their  thoughts  more  and  more  to  the 
life  of  the  mind,  which  they  regarded  as  an  im- 


ART  AND  LIFE  51 

perative  half  of  existence,  and  insisted  upon  this 
infiltrated  harmony  being  fused  into  their  palaces 
and   private   dwellings.      They   developed   a    sure 
and  instinctive  taste  for  beautiful  surroundings, 
and  in  the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries,  when 
the  bloom  of  national  vitality  and  thought  was 
approaching  full  flower,  there  came  about  a  flores- 
cence  of  creative  genius   such  as  the  world  has 
seldom  witnessed.    This  was  because  Italy  for  gen- 
erations had  felt  and  assimilated  the  order  and 
beauty   which,   like   a   great   light,   had   radiated 
over  the  land   from  the  intellectual  fires   of  the 
Catholic    Church.      The   people   were   unable    to 
escape  from  the   power  of  that  beauty,  and,  in 
succumbing,  they  grew  to  feel  the  deep  need  of 
those   moments    of   religious    service   when    they 
could  leave  the  world,  with  its  discords  and  crudi- 
ties, behind,  and  bask  in  an  almost  supra-mundane 
peace.     Furthermore,  the  prelates,  who  were  the 
living  examples  to  others,  represented  the  pinna- 
cle of  culture  in  their  day.     Their  friends  were 
men  of  taste  and  intelligence,  and  by  encourag- 
ing the   creation   of  beauty,   as    an   aid  to  their 
own  power  and  dignity  and  pride,  they  set  a  cri- 
terion of  connoisseurship  which,  whether  right  or 
wrong    in    its  details,    was    of    superior    calibre. 
Generations   of  such  conditions  bore  their  inevi- 
table fruit,  giving  us  the  Titans  of  the  Renais- 
sance.    The  rites  and  ceremonies  of  the  Catholic 


62  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

Church,  which  amount  to  great  pageants  of  vis- 
ual as  well  as  spiritual  beauty,  have  had  an 
incalculable  influence  on  the  imagination  and 
thought  of  its  devotees ;  and  the  plasticity  and 
humanity  of  its  creed  permit  of  a  hfe  such  as 
nature  intended  men  to  live.  Catholicism's  no- 
bility of  doctrine,  its  adaptability  to  the  indi- 
vidual case,  and  its  freedom  from  final  and  ab- 
solute punishments  and  rewards  were  a  continu- 
ance of  the  classic  religions  of  Greece;  and  it 
is  only  under  such  plastic  yet  firm  governments 
that  the  artist  thrives.  In  such  states  the  gov- 
ernment, comprising  the  intellectual  superiors 
who  possess  more  dignity  and  nobility  than  the 
populace,  gives  the  artist  that  consciousness  of 
real  power  which  is  necessary  to  the  high  task 
of  creation. 


The  Impossibility  of  Completely  Dehuman- 
ising Ourselves. — Any  work  of  art,  no  matter 
on  how  high  an  aesthetic  plane,  can  be  completely 
overthrown  artistically  by  the  introduction  of 
even  a  minor  incongruity.  A  serious  piece  of 
formal  literature  in  which  there  should  suddenly 
appear,  at  the  moment  of  climacteric  tenseness, 
a  passage  written  in  a  flippant  and  bufFoonish 
style,  would  straightway  be  reduced  to  folly,  even 
though  the  actual  literary  form  should  remain 


ART  AND  LIFE  53 

intact.  A  funeral  march  which  should,  without 
warning,  change  its  tempo  into  that  of  a  gavotte, 
would  have  the  spell  of  its  power  irremediably 
broken.  A  pictorial  composition  of  organised 
struggling  figures  in  which  should  suddenly  ap- 
pear a  grimacing,  mirth-provoking  visage,  would 
cease  to  move  us  emphatically.  An  ugly,  even 
repugnant,  subject  can  be  treated  artistically  and 
endowed  with  eesthetic  beauty.  But  incongruity 
inevitably  places  an  insurmountable  obstacle  in 
the  path  of  sequential  thought  and  feeling.  Be- 
cause of  our  human  associations  no  element  of 
surprise  which  does  not  exist  in  the  same  emo- 
tional atmosphere  as  that  from  which  it  took 
birth,  can  be  introduced  into  art  without  break- 
ing the  subconscious  thread  of  our  emotional 
thought.  Thus  all  art,  however  great,  is  depend- 
ent upon  a  superficial  consistency  unrelated  to 
the  laws  and  principles  of  form  and  composition. 

43. 

The  Demand  for  Order. — The  natural  in- 
stinct for  order,  the  desire  to  have  details  prop- 
erly arranged,  the  pleasure  derived  from  the  just- 
ness of  proportions  in  the  factors  of  common 
experience — herein  we  find  the  human  impulse 
toward  unity.  Chaos  disturbs  the  most  primitive 
of  intelligences:  in  all  the  flux  and  reflux  of  ex- 


54  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

istence  there  is  the  constant  tendency  toward  law 
and  order,  toward  the  harmonising  of  divergen- 
cies. Even  in  the  minds  of  pluralistic  philoso- 
phers will  be  discovered  a  process  of  relationship, 
which  co-ordinates  and  cements  the  physical  and 
metaphysical  integers.  There  is  a  gravity  of  the 
mind  which  attracts  to  it  all  intellectual  parti- 
cles; and  this  mental  gravity  is  no  more  than  the 
protoplasmic  instinct  toward  unity.  All  mathe- 
matical divisions  of  one  are  arbitrary  assump- 
tions. The  establishment  of  relationships — which 
must  eventually  lead  to  a  unique  measure — is  our 
only  basis  of  satisfaction  or  gratification.  A  work 
of  art  is  only  perfect  in  so  far  as  it  affects  us 
as  a  unity — that  is,  as  an  ordered  and  related 
whole.  A  demand  for  this  interrelationship  in 
art  is  analogous  to  the  same  demand  as  applied 
to  the  factors  of  life.  In  art,  however,  the  unity 
must  be  both  real  and  philosophic.  It  must  repre- 
sent the  concentration  of  the  emotion  of  unity — 
the  co-ordination  of  causes  as  well  as  effects. 


44.  ' 

Realism  in  Art. — The  many  facts  which  we 
accumulate  while  superficially  recording  the  pass- 
ing of  life,  are,  while  perhaps  interesting  in  them- 
selves, of  no  fundamental  aesthetic  significance. 
The  earnest  preoccupation  with  externals,  such 


ART  AND  LIFE  55 

as  we  find  in  most  Russian  literature  and  in 
the  realistic  English  novel,  corresponds  to  the 
painter's  depiction  of  the  movement  of  the  dance 
by  catching  and  petrifying  a  single  attitude  of  the 
dancer.  In  all  such  dancing  pictures  and  repor- 
torial  novels  we  have  only  the  simulacnnn  of  ac- 
tion as  it  reveals  itself  to  the  eye — not  action 
which  results  from  a  profound  manipulation  of 
causative  forces  adapted  to  art  forms.  It  is 
imitative,  not  created,  action.  The  greater  works 
of  literature,  those  whose  details  are  the  result 
of  a  conjunction  of  underlying  forces,  corre- 
spond to  those  masterful  paintings  wherein  the 
objects  or  lines  make  the  spectator  feel,  not  that 
he  is  looking  at  the  depiction  of  form,  but  that 
he  is  experiencing  form  itself.  The  former  works 
of  simple  realism  extend  themselves  from  the  re- 
sult to  the  cause,  and  therefore,  at  best,  are  only 
explanatory.  The  latter  works  of  profound  real- 
ism follow  nature's  methods:  they  record  motives 
and  forces  which  generate  the  panorama  of  the 
visual  world.  The  first  type  of  realism  is  repre- 
sented by  Dostoieffsky  and  Degas,  the  second 
type  by  Conrad  and  Daumier. 

45. 

Illustration  and  Empathy. — The  difference 
between  illustrative  art  (such  as  simple  melody, 


56  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

shape  representation  and  narration)  and  aes- 
thetic expression  is  that  in  the  former  we  are 
pleasantly  reminded  of  an  old  mood,  a  past  scene 
or  a  familiar  story,  while  in  the  latter  we  incorpo- 
rate into  our  lives  a  totally  new  experience. 

46. 

Art's  Search  for  Truth. — The  whole  history 
of  art,  like  the  history  of  all  thought,  has  been 
directed  by  a  desire  to  arrive  at  truth.  The  first 
prehistoric  scratches  on  stones,  the  first  crude 
musical  sounds,  the  first  tales  and  sagas — all  have 
been  dictated  by  some  cryptic  inner  impulse  to 
reproduce  and  interpret  the  world  of  actuality. 
Along  this  path,  and  this  path  alone,  has  the 
search  for  truth  progressed.  To  many  it  would 
seem  paradoxical  to  say  that  the  modern  art 
which  aims  at  an  abstract  aesthetic  effect  evolves 
from  the  same  longing  for  truth  that  has  given 
us  Impressionism,  the  realistic  novel,  and  illustra- 
tive and  imitative  music.  Yet  such  is  the  case. 
From  the  painting  of  five  hundred  years  ago, 
when  the  artist's  only  desire  was  optically  to  re- 
produce his  model,  to  the  recent  art  which  strikes 
at  underlying  causes  alone,  we  have  a  direct  pro- 
gressus  of  research  and  aspiration.  At  first  the 
model  was  considered  merely  in  its  aspect  of 
recognisable    silhouette.      Next    the    artist    went 


ART  AND  LIFE  57 

deeper  into  the  character  of  the  model  and  sub- 
ordinated details  in  order  to  catch  the  very  es- 
sence of  what  was  before  him.  Then  he  studied 
the  light  surrounding  the  model,  and,  dissecting 
it,  made  it  vibrate  even  as  in  nature.  Later  he 
discovered  the  formal  qualities  of  colour,  and  his 
chief  desire  was  to  reproduce  the  rotundity  of 
the  model.  As  a  result  of  these  more  or  less  tech- 
nical considerations  he  became  acquainted  with 
his  medium,  and  was  able  to  mould  it  to  his  own 
ends.  Needless  to  say,  his  progress  toward  so 
sure  a  knowledge  was  not  so  simple  and  smooth 
as  it  appears  set  down  in  a  simple  statement,  for 
other  struggles  occupied  his  thoughts  and  at 
times  distracted  him  from  the  problems  directly 
concerned  with  his  medium.  At  certain  stages  in 
his  development  he  was  necessitated  to  depict 
figures  of  the  church  and  the  court,  or  to  de- 
scribe events  of  past  epochs  in  which  he  had  no 
interest.  But  despite  these  retards  he  acquired, 
iin  turn,  resemblance,  character,  objective  reality, 
colour,  and  volume.  It  was  then  that  he  felt  the 
need  of  a  philosophical  element  which  would  ex- 
jpress  subjectively  the  laws  of  life  just  as  his  fig- 
ures and  shapes  expressed  the  objects  of  life. 
Here  entered  composition — that  quality  which,  by 
means  of  certain  laws  of  line  and  mass,  welds  to- 
gether all  parts  of  the  picture  and  makes  of  the 
work  a   symbolic   replica   of  man's   obedience   to 


58  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

the  laws  of  nature.  After  the  Renaissance  the 
knowledge  of  composition  died  down,  and  many 
minor  schools  of  painting  sprang  into  life;  but 
after  a  short  period  of  experimentation  in  meth- 
ods, composition  came  back  to  art  with  renewed 
vigour.  More  and  more  the  serious  creator  is 
coming  to  realise  that  there  is  but  one  element 
in  all  deep  and  significant  expression — complete 
order,  and  that  this  element  is  like  a  seed  out 
of  which  every  other  element  and  attribute  in  an 
art  work  grows.  After  all,  this  complete  order 
is  what  holds  life  itself  together — the  unseen  or- 
der which  dictates  our  every  thought  and  ac- 
tion; the  energetic  and  dynamic  order  of  which 
our  separate  personalities,  our  very  bodies  and 
brains,  are  merely  the  inconsequential  result. 
Just  as  the  truth  in  life  is  hidden  deeply  under 
the  visual  and  material  world,  so  does  the  truth 
in  art  lie  far  beneath  the  document  and  imitation. 


47. 

Why  One's  Criterion  of  Judgment  Should 
Be  the  Highest. — It  is  constantly  asserted  that 
if  only  the  highest  criteria  were  applied  to  art  in 
one's  everyday  appreciations,  much  of  the  en- 
joyment in  contemporary  works  would  be  lost. 
But  in  this  assertion  is  discoverable  the  demo- 
cratic instinct  to  elevate  the  mediocre  and  rev- 


ART  AND  LIFE  59 

erence  mere  sterile  sincerity  and  ambition.  In 
art,  as  in  life,  results  alone  are  of  importance. 
Despite  an  artist's  good  intentions,  he  is  no 
greater  than  his  created  products.  If  his  re- 
sults are  inferior,  he  is  deserving  only  of  that 
place  in  the  appreciative  esteem  which  his  actual 
work  warrants.  If  this  standard  were  rigidly  ap- 
plied he  would  never  overestimate  his  capabilities 
or  cease  making  efforts  to  progress.  To  the  con- 
trary, he  would  heed  the  call  of  a  far  goal  and 
would  strive  to  attain  to  greater  heights.  Judged 
by  low  standards  and  lauded  for  ambitious  seri- 
ousness, he  is  content  with  meagre  attainment. 
Thus,  on  the  personal  side  of  art,  the  inferior 
criterion  has  its  deleterious  effect.  But  there  are 
more  serious  results  following  the  adoption  of  a 
low  aesthetic  measure.  The  entire  standard  of 
art  valuation  eventually  falls.  Arbitrary  and 
wholly  sentimental  considerations  become  at- 
tached to  aesthetic  appreciation:  false  values 
spring  up;  and  the  true  purpose  of  art  is  lost 
in  a  welter  of  irrelevancies.  Men  of  talent  are 
unconsciously  turned  toward  goals  wholly  out- 
side the  paths  of  pure  creative  endeavour.  The 
great  artists,  to  be  sure,  are  in  no  way  contami- 
nated by  these  distorted  visions;  but  their  prog- 
ress is  retarded  because  they  are  unable  to  utilise 
the  discoveries  of  lesser  men,  and  must  therefore 
give  much  of  their  time  to  the  solution  of  minor 


60  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

problems.  The  lesser  men,  corrupted  by  low 
standards,  have  no  incentive  to  advance  on  any 
one  side  of  art  beyond  the  narrow  boundaries 
prescribed  for  them.  They  contribute  no  re- 
search to  aesthetics  which  would  facilitate  the  ad- 
vancement of  the  great. 

48. 

Result  of  Democracy  on  Art. — Once  the 
principles  which  are  necessary  to  aesthetic  ex- 
pression are  known,  there  will  be  a  minimum  of 
chaotic  variation  in  the  conceptions  of  different 
artists.  During  all  great  creative  periods  there 
has  been  a  general  homogeneous  trend  toward 
certain  results,  because  then  artists  had  a  definite 
conception  of  composition,  and  possessed,  in  cer- 
tain conventions  of  methods,  a  definite  vehicle  of 
expression.  To-day  the  great  disintegration  of 
effort  is  almost  wholly  the  result  of  a  widespread 
ignorance  of  art  laws.  In  an  age  of  research 
each  man  becomes  a  law  unto  himself,  and  re- 
gards one  idea  as  just  as  valuable  as  another, 
provided  it  is  novel  or  personal.  He  therefore 
proclaims  himself  the  equal  of  all  others  because 
he  is  "expressing  himself."  Are  not  his  responses 
to  objective  stimuli  as  genuine  as  those  of  any 
one  else?  This  may  be  true;  but  a  recorded  re- 
action to  stimuli  is  not  necessarily  art.     The  in- 


ART  AND  LIFE  61 

adequacy  of  such  a  man's  work  is  due  to  the  fact 
that  he  has  never  been  taught  the  basis  on  which 
creative  effort  must  be  built,  and,  as  a  result, 
his  "expression"  is  of  no  more  aesthetic  importance 
than  his  personality. 

49. 

Art  and  Popularity. — Any  attempt  to  de- 
mocratise art  results  in  the  lowering  of  the  artistic 
standard.  Only  in  primitive  times,  when  art  was 
simple  and  without  philosophic  significance,  was 
there  any  intimate  intellectual  relationship  be- 
tween artist  and  pubhc.  The  purely  pictorial 
has  always  been  relished  by  the  general, — ^herein 
lies  their  supreme  standard  of  appreciation.  In 
the  ancient  world  art  was  a  utility.  So-called 
primitive  works  of  art  were  outgrowths  of  the 
public's  delight  in  the  contemplation  of  images. 
The  masses  created  the  demand  for  art  which, 
for  the  most  part,  was  limited  to  designs  wholly 
obvious  to  the  most  rudimentary  mind.  At  that 
period  the  artist  was  only  a  craftsman  who  was 
content  to  follow  the  people's  dictates  and  to 
reflect  their  crude  taste.  Art  was  then  demo- 
cratic. But  when  the  ideal  of  fluent  movement  was 
introduced  into  it,  art  began  to  grow  more 
rhythmic  and  individual.  Painting,  drawing  and 
sculpture  clothed  themselves  in  the  integuments 
of  aestheticism :  they  took  on  significance;  and  at 


62  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

once  the  people's  delight  in  them  began  to  dimin- 
ish. The  artist's  mind  had  begun  to  develop  be- 
yond his  pubhc ;  and  a  general  antagonism  toward 
all  assthetic  endeavour  sprang  into  existence.  De- 
spite the  attempts  of  the  nobles  to  step  into  the 
breach,  this  antagonism  has  persisted  for  centu- 
ries. The  large  majority  of  people  to-day  are 
hostile  to  the  artist.  He  is  looked  upon  as  one 
who  threatens  the  whole  social  fabric;  and  art 
itself  is  considered  the  manifestation  of  disor- 
dered and  dangerous  brains.  But  although  this 
hostihty  has  ever  been  present,  art  has  forced 
its  way  through  a  splendid  evolution,  constantly 
and  persistently  developing  beyond  the  common 
understanding  of  mankind.  To  reinstate  it  again 
into  popularity  would  mean  that  it  would  have  to 
revert  to  its  primitive  state,  to  forgo  its  profound 
problems,  and  to  adopt  once  more  the  simple 
vision  of  ignorance. 

50. 

The  Educationai.  Effect  of  Esthetic  Sur- 
roundings.— Deep-seated  in  every  human  being 
is  a  desire  for  the  varied,  commonly  termed  the 
beautiful;  and  one's  true  comprehension  of  art 
and  one's  ability  to  react  to  aesthetic  emotion  are 
merely  educational  and  philosophic  extensions  of 
this  unconscious  desire.  Among  people  who  see 
no  ordered  pictures,  hear  no  great  music,  or  read 


ART  AND  LIFE  63 

no  good  literature  we  find  an  innate,  if  crude  and 
unorganised,  taste  for  beauty  which  manifests  it- 
self in  domestic  ornaments,  household  utensils 
and  raiment,  and  which  expresses  itself  in  awe 
and  silence  before  grandiose  architecture,  pomps, 
pageants,  and  impressive  scenery.  Unquestion- 
ably the  great  majority  of  these  persons  would 
be  more  contented  and  happy  in  interiors  whose 
proportions  were  just  and  whose  colours  and  or- 
naments were  harmonious.  For  them  at  present 
the  greatest  art  is  without  meaning  because  a 
genuine  desire  for  such  works  presupposes  not 
only  a  high  intellectual  development,  but  a  full 
capacity  for  pure  aesthetic  emotion:  to  this  plane 
the  average  person  has  not  ascended.  But  the 
constant  influence  of  harmony  and  proportion  in 
all  objects  surrounding  even  the  ignorant  indi- 
vidual cannot  but  produce  a  definite  elevating  ef- 
fect on  his  taste — an  effect  proportionate  to 
the  insistence  of  his  environmental  Jiarmonies. 
After  several  generations  of  such  conditions  peo- 
ple would  come  to  demand  the  permanency  of 
such  surroundings,  with  the  result  that  even  their 
commercial  activities  would  be  dominated  by  art; 
and  there  would  spring  into  existence  an  epoch 
of  aesthetic  culture  far  greater  in  intensity  than 
that  of  Greece  or  of  Renaissance  Italy.  Here 
would  be  a  society  of  patricians:  its  mediocre 
members  would  surpass  in  art  knowledge  the  aver- 


64  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

age  connoisseur  of  to-day ;  and  its  great  men  would 
overtop  the  pinnacles  of  the  ancient  world.  In 
order  to  produce  such  conditions  the  principles 
and  the  philosophy  of  art  should  now  be  dissemi- 
nated in  the  schools.  Definite  illustrations  and 
explanations  of  works  under  discussion  should  be 
given.  Only  general  statements  of  detail  should 
be  taught,  emphasis  being  placed  on  the  pro- 
founder  causes  underlying  them.  Taste  and  or- 
der should  be  the  cardinal  requisites  of  all  stu- 
dents. Thus  would  the  most  complete  method  of 
acquiring  happiness  become  inherent  in  man- 
kind. 

51. 

Modern  Complexities  of  Life  as  Expressed 
IN  Art  Appreciation. — Actual,  not  apparent, 
simplicity  in  art  is  satisfying  to  simple  minds. 
The  modern  man  has  become  too  complex  to  en- 
joy the  simple  things  of  life.  The  early  sim- 
ple theatre,  the  simple  melodies  of  antiquity,  and 
the  simple  visions  of  primitive  painters  no  longer 
interest  us  deeply  because  of  their  very  sim- 
plicity. Our  minds  call  for  a  more  forceful  emo- 
tion than  these  easily  grasped  art  works  can 
give  us.  We  require  problems,  inspirations,  in- 
centives to  thought.  And  as  the  complicated  and 
organised  forces  of  life  become  comprehensible 
to  us,  we  shall  demand  more  and  more  that  our 


ART  AND  LIFE  65 

analytic  intelligences  be  mirrored  in  our  enjoy- 
ments. 


The  Intellect's  Place  in  Art  Apprecia- 
tion.— The  process  of  reasoning  which  is  neces- 
sary to  appreciate  fully  a  work  of  art  is  not  the 
same  as  mechanical  or  scientific  observation.  Art 
is  not  a  provable  theory  whose  comprehension 
affects  us  like  that  of  a  piece  of  intricate  ma- 
chinery, for,  once  we  understand  its  constitutional 
qualities,  the  emotional  reaction  will  follow  so 
rapidly  as  to  give  the  impression  of  spontaneity. 
Our  process  of  conscious  observation  in  time  be- 
comes automatic.  The  absolute  truth  of  art  ex- 
ists no  more  than  the  absolute  truth  of  life:  art, 
like  life,  must  ever  be  an  infinite  search  for  the 
intractable.  Its  forms,  like  the  eternal  readjust- 
ments and  equilibria  of  life,  are  but  an  approxi- 
mation to  stability.  The  forces  of  all  art  are  the 
forces  of  life,  co-ordinated  and  organised.  We 
cannot  sound  their  finality,  and  they  are  insus- 
ceptible of  exact  definition.  No  formula  will  per- 
mit of  aesthetic  creation,  any  more  than  a  sci- 
entific formula  will  permit  of  the  creation  of  life. 
This  is  why  understanding  must  ever  be  relative, 
and  why,  in  applying  our  intelligences  to  an  art 
work,  we  are  not  systematising  our  emotions. 
We  are  only  attuning  ourselves  to  art's  secrets. 


66  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

The  problems  in  life  and  art  are  eternally  draw- 
ing toward  an  ever-retreating  consummation. 


53. 

Repkesentation  in  Art. — ^Were  representa- 
tion the  object  of  art,  art  would  always  be  in- 
ferior to  hfe — a  mere  simulacrum  of  our  daily 
existence,  ever  inadequate  in  its  illusion.  But 
suppose  this  realism  is  idealised,  you  suggest. 
Very  well,  then:  it  would  cease  to  be  mere  repre- 
sentation, and  would  be  great  in  ratio  to  this 
added  quality  of  idealism.  The  idealism  would 
be  the  important  aesthetic  factor.  And  it  is  this 
idealism  (so-called  because  its  precise  character- 
istics are  not  understood  by  the  speaker)  with 
which  the  artist  is  concerned.  In  it  are  embodied 
those  principles  which  distinguish  creation  from 
representation.  Herein  lies  the  aesthetic  import 
of  art.     All  else  is  mere  dead  material. 


64. 

Greatness  and  Nationality. — There  is  no  na- 
tionality in  art.  Those  who  plead  for  a  national 
art  are  ignorant  of  art's  primary  significance. 
Only  in  the  most  superficial  qualities  can  the 
traits  of  a  nation  be  expressed;  and  these  quali- 
ties   are    sesthetically    negligible.      The    germ    of 


ART  AND  LIFE  67 

genius,  which  lies  at  the  bottom  of  all  high  crea- 
tive expression,  is  changeless  and  eternal;  and 
for  this  reason  a  great  man  belongs  to  all  coun- 
tries and  to  all  times.  He  embraces  every  strug- 
gle that  has  gone  before. 

55. 

National  Types  of  Art  and  the  Infi^uences 
Which  Dictate  Them. — ^When  trying  to  sound 
the  reason  why  one  nation  creates  one  kind  of 
art  and  brings  it  to  its  highest  perfection,  why 
another  excels  in  a  different  art  and  brings  forth 
only  mediocre  or  imitative  works  of  the  first  kind, 
and  why  yet  another  nation  reaches  its  highest 
level  in  a  third  kind  of  art,  we  must  go  deep  into 
their  organisms  and  influences.  Superficial  char- 
acteristics will  never  reveal  the  true  source  of 
aesthetic  variation.  Taine  has  brought  together 
the  salient  characteristics  of  nationality,  and  by 
stating  their  sources  has  explained  their  relation 
to  art  production.  From  these  can  be  deduced 
the  specific  kinds  of  art  which  each  nation  has 
given  birth  to  and  the  reasons  which  underly  them. 
In  ancient  times  the  Greeks  seemed  to  combine  all 
the  art  impulses  of  the  various  modern  tempera- 
ments: they  produced  philosophy,  music,  poetry, 
prose,  sculpture,  dancing  and  painting.  This 
versatihty  was  a  result  of  their  wonderfully  bal- 


68  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

anced  mental  and  physical  forces.  The  separate 
traits  of  these  inclusively  intelligent  people  are 
to  be  found,  exaggerated,  developed  or  weakened, 
in  all  the  Germanic  and  Latin  races  and  their  de- 
scendants to-day.  Their  philosophic  attributes 
have  passedj  somewhat  vulgarised  and  systema- 
tised,  to  the  modern  Germans.  Their  subtleties, 
undergoing  a  similar  metamorphosis,  have  lodged 
in  the  French  temperament.  And  their  nobility 
and  pride  of  race  are  to  be  found,  converted  into  a 
sentimental  fetish,  in  the  Spaniard.  It  is  in  these 
traits,  disintegrated  among  many  peoples  and 
given  an  acuteness  or  complexity  in  answer  to 
the  needs  of  modern  life,  that  form  the  matrices 
out  of  which  modern  plastic  art  has  issued.  The 
genius  of  the  ancient  Greek  was  eminently  picto- 
rial; his  imagination  encompassed  all  life  by  way 
of  images.  This  is  explainable  by  the  fact  that 
he  understood  man  and  studied  him  more  deeply 
than  he  did  nature.  His  conclusions  were  dictated 
by  the  functioning  of  the  human  body  to  which 
he  turned  because  in  it  he  found  something  tan- 
gible, absolute,  concrete.  By  keeping  himself  be- 
fore his  own  eyes  as  an  important  entity  he  con- 
ceived a  precise,  formal  idea  of  life.  This  atti- 
tude led  to  generalising  and  to  an  utter  indif- 
ference toward  useless  details.  With  the  Ital- 
ians of  the  Renaissance  we  have  the  Greek  condi- 
tions over  again.    Between  these  two  nations  there 


ART  AND  LIFE  69 

existed  temperamental  similarities  despite  the  feu- 
dalism and  asceticism  of  the  Middle  Ages.  Like 
the  Greeks,  the  Italians  preferred  symmetry  and 
proportion  to  comfort,  the  joy  of  the  senses  to  ce- 
lestial pleasures  after  death.  In  the  religion  of  the 
Italians  was  that  toleration  which  is  necessary  to 
art  production ;  and  there  were  courts  where  intel- 
lectual attainments  were  placed  above  all  else. 
The  greatest  difference  between  the  Greeks  and 
the  Italians  was  that  whereas  the  Greek  mind  and 
body,  exquisitely  balanced  and  wholly  harmoni- 
ous, constituted  a  unified  and  conjoined  whole, 
the  Italian  mind  and  body  were  separate  develop- 
ments. The  Greeks  cultivated  sound,  rhythm, 
poetry  and  movement  simultaneously  in  their  thea- 
tres and  dances.  The  Italians  laid  stress  on  these 
various  impulses  at  different  periods  and,  instead 
of  welding  them  into  one  impulse,  cultivated  and 
intensified  them  individually.  Just  as  sculpture 
was  the  leading  art  of  the  Greeks,  so  it  was  the 
leading  art  of  the  Renaissance,  for  the  Italian 
painting  was  primarily  sculpturesque,  inspired  by 
form  and  line,  not  by  tone  and  gradation  as  was 
the  painting  of  the  Netherlands.  The  colour 
that  the  Italian  painters  used  was  purely  decora- 
tive, never  realistic:  it  was  an  ornament  superim- 
posed on  perfect  sculptural  forms,  just  as  the 
figures  and  designs  of  the  Gothic  cathedrals  were 
superimpositions  on  an  unstable,  tortured  science. 


70  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

In  Germany  to  the  north  we  find  other  conditions 
at  work,  and,  as  a  result,  other  types  of  mental 
and  creative  endeavour.  The  temperamental  dif- 
ference between  the  Germans,  and  the  Greeks  and 
Italians  is  due  in  large  measure  to  climate.  In 
the  greater  part  of  Greece  and  Italy  the  light  is 
so  luminous  that  the  colour  is  sucked  from  nature, 
and  all  that  remains  is  line  and  hard-cut,  precise 
silhouette.  Therefore  the  Greeks'  and  Italians' 
perception  is  formally  sculptural,  for  it  is  sil- 
houette which  inspires  to  sculpture.  With  such 
a  vision  ever  before  their  eyes  it  follows  that  their 
thought — the  life  of  their  minds — should  be  gen- 
eral and,  though  specific,  conventionalised.  The 
Germanic  races  are  the  offspring  of  an  opposite 
environment.  Their  climate  is  damper  and  more 
overcast.  Cold  and  mist  are  far  more  general 
than  to  the  southward.  Hence  we  see  no  sculp- 
ture among  the  Germans ;  and  since  their  environ- 
ment is  the  opposite  of  clear-cut  and  incisive,  they 
deal  in  metaphysical  terms,  naked  symbols  de- 
void of  images,  precise  ideas  and  abstract  sys- 
tems of  life.  As  a  result  the  German  is  patient, 
researchful,  metaphysical,  whereas  the  Italian  is 
mercurial,  seeing  the  metaphysical  only  in  terms 
of  the  pictorial.  The  Germans  have  had  to  clothe 
themselves,  and  thus  have  not  lived  with,  as  it 
were,  and  glorified  the  human  body.  In  their 
paintings   the  idea  is  the  highest   consideration. 


ART  AND  LIFE  71 

The  German  is  methodical,  and  the  consequent 
slowness  of  his  mental  processes  protects  him 
against  quick  and  distracting  reactions,  and  per- 
mits him  a  greater  capacity  for  sequential  think- 
ing. But  with  all  his  abstract  philosophical  rea- 
soning he  is  a  realist,  for  he  never  conceives  ideal- 
ised forms,  as  did  the  Renaissance  Italians.  He 
penetrates  to  the  foundations  even  when  those 
foundations  are  ugly,  his  ideal  being  internal, 
rather  than  external,  truth.  The  German  rests 
all  his  thoughts  on  a  definite  basis  of  science  and 
observation,  and  all  his  thinking  must  lead  to  an 
absolute  result.  Here  we  have  an  explanation  for 
his  music.  In  it  he  expresses  the  abstract  concep- 
tions of  life;  and  his  ability  to  create  it  rests  on 
his  infinite  patience  in  deciphering  the  enormous 
mass  of  requisite  technical  knowledge  necessary  to 
its  successful  birth.  The  Dutch  and  the  Belgians 
— both  stemming  from  Germanic  stock — repre- 
sent once  more  the  influence  which  climate  and 
religion  and  methods  of  Hfe  have  on  aesthetic  cre- 
ation. The  Dutch  chose  Protestantism,  a  form  of 
religion  from  which  external  and  sensuous  beauty 
had  been  eliminated.  They  adopted  the  settled' 
contentment  of  mere  animal  comforts,  and,  as 
a  result,  grew  torpid  and  flaccid  through  good 
living  and  the  gratification  of  heavy  appetites. 
The  ease  of  their  existence  brought  about  a  tol- 
erance which  created  an   art  appreciation;   and 


72  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

appreciation  is  the  soil  in  which  art  production 
always  flourishes.  The  result  was  an  art  which 
was  an  added  comfort  to  the  home — an  art  with 
a  sensuality  of  vision  which  reflected  the  sen- 
suality of  life.  The  Dutch,  comfortable  and  dis- 
liking eff*ort,  lived  in  a  land  which  was  all  colour 
and  blurs.  Man  was  pictured  as  he  appeared, 
neither  idealised  nor  degraded,  with  little  parti 
priSy  as  great  masses  of  substance,  with  misty 
outlines,  emerging  from  a  tenebrous  climatic  en- 
vironment. The  Belgians,  on  the  other  hand, 
were  Catholics.  They  were  more  sensuous,  more 
joyous  than  the  Dutch.  They  saw  images 
through  the  eyes  of  Catholicism.  Their  lives 
were  filled  with  pomp  and  show  and  parade :  even 
their  form  of  worship  was  external  and  decora- 
tive. Consequently  their  art,  while  realistic,  was 
more  exalted  and  sensuous,  filled  with  a  spirit  of 
freedom  and  infused  with  philosophic  thought. 
These  two  types  of  realism  are  represented  in 
Rubens  and  Rembrandt.  France  received  all  its 
permanent  impetus  to  plastic  creation  from  the 
north.  There  was  a  short  period  when  the  art 
was  a  political  melange  of  classic  ideas,  and  an- 
other period  when  the  Venetian  admiration  resus- 
citated composition  (as  in  Delacroix)  ;  but  the 
permanent  contributions  came  in  the  form  of 
Flemish  realism  with  its  delicacy  of  tonal  sub- 
tleties.    The  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  century 


ART  AND  LIFE  73 

Dutchmen  were  echoed  in  the  Barbizon  school; 
and  this  salutary  reaction  to  nature  from  Graeco- 
Roman  academism  gave  an  added  impetus  to  real- 
ism. The  mercurial  quality  of  the  French  mind, 
now  classically  philosophical,  now  naturalistic, 
now  stiffly  moral,  taking  on  all  the  colours  of  all 
influences,  demands  strong  emotions.  Two  cen- 
turies of  inventions  and  complex  life,  added  to  the 
adopted  culture  of  the  Dutch  and  the  Italians, 
created  an  art  which  was  novel,  colourful  and  at 
times  even  sensational.  The  individualism  of  the 
Renaissance  found  a  new  home  in  the  French  in- 
tellect. That  love  of  life  and  the  reversion  to  a 
more  joyous  existence  (which  came  after  the  Rev- 
olution) cast  the  Church  out  and  drove  the  intel- 
lectuals back  to  the  worship  of  nature.  The 
French  then  had  time  to  enjoy  the  complexities  of 
composition;  and  the  elegance  of  their  cultiva- 
tion resurrected  an  insistence  upon  style.  They 
wrote  no  philosophies;  they  were  not  interested 
in  detailed  research;  but  they  lived  febrilely,  and 
the  records  of  their  lives,  subordinated  to  gen- 
eral philosophic  plans  which,  were  created  by 
style,  produced  great  literature.  Like  children 
they  received  the  half-completed  flowers  of  the 
Renaissance  and  the  partial  realism  of  their  fore- 
bears, and  these  bequests  were  a  source  of  won- 
der and  delight  to  them.  They  continued  both 
quickly  on  a  wave  of  reaction  by  expressing  the 


74?  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

one  by  means  of  the  other.  They  combined  the 
Germanic  and  the  Latin  impulses ;  and  from  this 
perfectly  poised  combination  issued  the  excellence 
of  their  painting  and  hterature.  Their  work  in 
the  other  arts  was  merely  an  aside,  as  was  poetry 
in  Flanders,  and  painting  in  Germany.  They 
lacked  the  German  meticulousness  and  preoccupa- 
tion with  abstractions  which  are  necessary  to  the 
highest  musical  composition;  and  their  plasticity 
of  mind  made  possible  intenser  images  in  paint- 
ing than  in  poetry.  In  England  few  outside  in- 
fluences have  taken  hold.  Its  geographical  isola- 
tion has  resulted  in  a  self-contented  provincial- 
ism. The  British  mind,  like  the  American  mind, 
is,  and  always  has  been,  unsympathetic  to  art. 
Art  is  regarded  as  a  curiosity,  an  appanage  of 
the  higher  education.  Intelligence,  as  such,  is  not 
believed  in.  With  the  English  all  thought  must 
be  bent  toward  a  utilitarian  end,  just  as  Latin 
thought  is  turned  toward  form  and  German 
thought  toward  philosophy.  In  the  stress  of  af- 
fairs Englishmen  have  little  time  for  so  exotic  a 
flower  as  art.  Their  minds  are  rigid  and  immo- 
bile, largely  because  of  their  form  of  religion. 
They  are  aggressively  Protestant.  In  their  re- 
ligion there  are  absolute  punishments  and  re- 
wards untempered  by  circumstances  or  individual 
cases.  There  are  fixed  emotional  values  and  ab- 
solute foci  of  the  mind;  and,  as  a  consequence, 


ART  AND  LIFE  76 

the  race  is  without  plastic  expression.  Their 
minds,  groping  after  beyond-world  comforts,  have 
become  static  and  out  of  touch  with  the  actuali- 
ties of  existence.  They  harbour  Utopian  schemes, 
and  consider  life  as  they  deem  it  should  be  lived, 
not  in  accord  with  nature's  intention.  Even  in 
their  rare  painters  of  landscape,  like  Turner  and 
Constable,  the  spirit  of  the  subject  is  hunted 
above  form;  and  when  this  is  not  the  case,  their 
pictures  are,  in  essence,  moral  and  anecdotal.  Be- 
cause the  English  are  primarily  busy,  constantly 
occupied  with  practical,  commercial  accomplish- 
ments, they  have  no  leisure  for  an  art  which  is 
a  compounding  of  subtleties,  like  the  painting  of 
the  Dutch  and  the  music  of  the  Germans.  Their 
tastes  naturally  resolve  themselves  into  a  desire 
for  a  simple  image — that  is,  for  an  art  entirely 
free  from  the  complex  intricacies  of  organisation. 
Their  pleasures  must  be  of  a  quick  variety  so  that 
the  appreciation  may  be  instantaneous.  And 
since  their  lives  are  neither  physical  nor  mental 
but  merely  material,  like  the  Americans',  it  is 
natural  that  they  should  react  to  trivial  transcen- 
dentalism and  sentimentality.  They  produce  no 
'art  which  is  either  philosophical  or  plastically 
formal.  But  in  the  art  of  poetry  they  lead  the 
world.  Poetry  presents  an  image  quickly,  and  it 
has  a  sensual  side  in  its  rhythm  as  well  as  a 
vague    and    transcendental    side    in    its    content. 


76  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

Poetry  is  the  lyricism  of  the  spirit,  even  as  sculp- 
ture is  the  lyricism  of  form.  Both  are  arts  which 
represent  quick  reactions,  the  one  sentimental 
and  spiritualised,  the  other  tangible  and  absolute. 
Even  English  style  is  more  a  matter  of  diction 
than  of  underlying  rhythm.  The  conditions,  re- 
ligion, temperament  and  pursuits  of  America  are 
similar  to  those  of  England,  and  American  art  is 
patterned  largely  on  that  of  its  mother  country. 
Poetry  is  the  chief,  as  well  as  the  most  highly 
developed,  aesthetic  occupation  of  Americans. 
Everywhere  to-day,  however,  national  conditions 
have  less  influence  than  formerly.  The  cosmopoli- 
tanism of  individuals  is  fast  breaking  down  na- 
tional boundaries.  The  modern  complex  mind, 
encrusted  by  2,000  years  of  diverse  forms  of  cul- 
ture, is  becoming  more  a  result  of  what  has  gone 
before  than  a  result  of  that  which  lies  about  it. 
We  of  to-day  easily  assimilate  influences  from 
all  sides,  and  while  some  of  the  arts  are  still  the 
property  of  temperamentally  kindred  nations,  the 
admixture  of  nationalities  and  the  changes  of 
regime  are  constantly  reversing  the  old  abihties. 

56. 

Science  as  an  Aid  to  Art. — Beneath  all  great 
art  there  is  to  be  sensed  a  definite  and  single 
purpose  which  had  for  its   goal  the   solution  of 


ART  AND  LIFE  77 

problems  touching  on  the  activities  of  the  crea- 
tive will.  These  problems  have  to  do  with  com- 
plex phases  of  human  psychology;  and  whereas 
artists  have  merely  sensed  them  and  attempted  to 
solve  them  through  the  senses  by  presenting  aes- 
thetic stimuli  based  on  personal  taste  or  selection, 
scientists  have  of  late  striven  to  reach  a  solution 
through  psychological  experimentation.  Art  and 
science  are  not  unrelated,  although  to  mention  the 
two  in  the  same  breath  has  long  constituted  a 
breach  of  intellectual  etiquette.  The  adjective 
"scientific,"  used  opprobriously,  has  been  hurled 
at  artists  who  strove  for  conciseness  of  purpose 
and  who  indulged  in  self-analysis  and  critical  pre- 
cision. Necromancy  in  art,  however,  is  preserved 
only  by  non-thinkers ;  and  since  the  genuine  crea- 
tors have  sought  the  services  of  science,  tremen- 
dous advances  have  been  made  in  means.  The  true 
modem  artist  no  longer  fears  exact  knowledge; 
and,  as  a  result,  we  stand  at  the  threshold  of 
the  purification  of  aesthetic  conception  and  pro- 
cedure. 

57. 

The  Law  of  Esthetic  Growth. — In  the  evo- 
lution of  art  every  genuine  Innovation  of  method 
must  be  developed  and  consummated  before  a 
new  one  can  take  its  place.  Michelangelo  brought 
sculpture   to   its   highest  point   of  development: 


78  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

after  him  a  new  viewpoint  entered  into  plastic  ex- 
pression. Rubens  completed  the  era  of  linear  oil 
painting  ushered  in  by  the  Van  Eycks.  Then 
came  a  hiatus ;  and  Delacroix,  Courbet  and  Dau- 
mier  went  forward  with  painting's  evolution  in  an 
entirely  new  direction.  The  Impressionists  com- 
pleted the  study  of  light;  and,  by  thus  solving 
and  disposing  of  that  aesthetic  problem,  they  made 
possible  the  advent  of  that  cycle  of  which  Ce- 
zanne was  the  archaic  father.  Beethoven  brought 
to  a  chmax  the  symphonic  form  which  Hadyn 
had  tentatively  set  forth;  and  since  his  day  a 
new  harmonic  era  has  been  steadily  gaining  im- 
petus. Swinburne  carried  the  rhymed  lyric  to  its 
highest  point  of  development  with  the  means  at 
hand;  and  to-day  a  new  prosodic  field  is  being 
diligently  ploughed  by  the  newer  poets.  It  is 
only  after  the  epuisement  of  a  certain  line  of 
endeavour  that  the  necessity  to  seek  for  a  new 
and  more  adequate  means  of  expression  is  felt. 
This  is  why  the  many  attempts  at  circumventing 
the  progressus  of  art  (such  as  formal  novelties, 
reversions  to  primitivism,  simplifications,  and  the 
like)  have  been  short-lived.  The  evolution  of  art 
is  as  gradual,  logical  and  inexorable  as  the  growth 
of  life  in  the  individual.  Those  artists  who  fail 
to  recognise  this  basic  law  of  aesthetic  develop- 
ment succeed  only  in  giving  birth  to  an  abor- 
tive  and   ineffectual   art — an   art   which   has   no 


ART  AND  LIFE  79 

enduring  qualities,  but  which  contains  the  germs 
of  decay  and  death. 


58. 

Art  as  an  Expression  of  Life. — The  dictum 
that  "art  should  express  life"  has  retarded  the 
development  of  aesthetic  expression  more  than  any 
other.  The  common  tendency  is  to  think  of  life 
in  terms  of  life's  effects — local  colour,  charac- 
ter, light,  visual  movement,  determinable  shapes, 
texture,  and  the  like.  But,  in  reality,  if  one  is  to 
express  life,  and  not  merely  the  results  of  life,  it 
is  necessary  to  determine  the  causative  forces 
whose  conjunctive  activities  produce  recognisable 
objects.  These  forces,  being  hidden  and  abstract, 
we  can  neither  see  nor  grasp ;  but  we  can  never- 
theless trace  them  by  their  workings.  And  their 
results,  when  constantly  repeated  on  a  logical 
schedule  of  time,  we  designate  as  natural  laws. 
Our  every  movement  and  thought,  being  merely 
an  objective  expression  of  these  forces,  conse- 
quently follows  a  corresponding  schedule ;  and  it 
is  these  underlying  forces,  in  conjunction  with 
their  resultant  objectivity,  which  constitute  the 
profound  and  significant  "life"  that  art  should 
express.  Every  human  being  possesses  practi- 
cally the  same  vision  of  colours  or  forms;  but  it 
is   the  artist's  duty  to   co-ordinate  them  into   a 


80  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

replica  of  that  order  of  forces  which  is  the  foun- 
dation of  every  impulse  and  material  phenomenon. 

59. 

The  Artist  as  Educator. — The  artist  is  an 
educator   in   that  he   makes   one   think   and   feel 
more  deeply  before  nature.      He  expresses   in  a 
definitely  limited  space  a  complete  cosmic  order 
of  form:  he  reduces  the  whole  gamut  of  human 
thought  and  vision  to  a  definite  and  precise  state- 
ment.    In  the  simplest  melodies  we  have  stretches 
of  tone  which  encompass  or  imply  every  possible 
sound:  it  is,  in  fact,  only  through  tliis  complete 
reflection  of  life  that  the  artist  produces   satis- 
faction.     There    still   persists    the   idea   that,   in 
painting,  colour  is  merely  an  ornament ;  but  those 
who  have  developed  a  pure  colour  sense  can  no 
longer   enjoy   incomplete   spectra   wherein   either 
the  cold  or  the  hot  hues  predominate;  and  it  is 
in  this  new  colour  art  that  we  find  a  poise  of 
chromatic,  as  well  as   of  formal,  values.      Great 
literature,  likewise,  presents   us  with  a  complete 
cycle  of  emotional  and  mental  life.     In  our  every- 
day experience  we  never  encounter  all  sounds  and 
colours  and  systems  of  thought;  but  in  the  high- 
est art  every  phase  of  life  is  embodied  and  bal- 
anced.    Little  by  little  science  is  analysing  and 
setting  down  all  that  art  has  expressed ;  and  phi- 


ART  AND  LIFE  81 

losophy  is  now  basing  its  conclusions  on  science. 
Eventually  art  will  be  recognised  as  the  form- 
mould  from  which  both  science  and  philosophy 
will  take  shape. 

60. 

Art  for  Art's  Sake. — The  dissimilarity  be- 
tween medium  and  effect  in  music,  painting  and 
literature  is  what  makes  these  arts  almost  in- 
exhaustible in  their  potentialities  for  novelty  and 
development.  For  instance,  in  music,  notes  are 
ordered,  not  to  make  pleasing  combinations  of 
sound,  but  to  create  forms  and  combinations  of 
forms.  Thus  there  is  a  psychological  breach 
between  the  medium  and  the  result.  Sound  for 
sound's  sake  would,  in  a  very  short  time,  be 
exhausted  as  even  a  pleasurable  amusement.  Like- 
wise, words  for  words'  sake  would  give  us,  not 
literature,  but  a  meaningless  and  slightly  musical 
poesy.  And  again,  colour  for  colour's  sake  would 
result  only  in  palty  decoration,  as  limited  as  Pro- 
fessor A.  Wallace  Rimington's  colour-organ.  In 
any  such  absolute  case  the  arts  would  be  entirely 
sensational  in  the  physical  sense,  divorced  from 
the  process  of  form  perception.  But  when  we 
use  words  for  the  sake  of  sequentially  organised 
ideas,  colour  for  the  sake  of  co-ordinated  formal- 
ised forces,  and  notes  for  the  sake  of  interrelated 
sound-shapes,  we  possess  in  each  instance  an  art 


82  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

which  IS  at  once  complete  and  susceptible  of  in- 
finite development.  Consequently  art  cannot  ex- 
ist for  art's  sake,  save  in  its  most  primitive  and 
trivial  stages.  It  is  a  philosophic  system  based 
on  concrete  forms  and  objective  experiences. 

61. 

The  Emotion  of  Form  in  Natuee  and  in 
Art. — If  a  work  of  graphic  art  fails  to  give  us, 
either  objectively  or  subjectively,  a  greater  sen- 
sation of  form  than  we  can  get  direct  from  na- 
ture, its  compositional  order,  though  rhythmical- 
ly perfect,  cannot  make  it  vital  or  attractive. 
The  complex  organisation  of  a  picture  reveals 
itself  only  after  prolonged  contemplation;  and  if 
there  is  not  a  plenitude  of  full  form  to  inspire 
the  spectator  to  this  contemplation  he  turns 
away:  the  emotional  element  is  lacking.  A  sen- 
sitive person,  seeing  the  flesh-like  and  tactile 
nudes  of  Rubens  or  Renoir,  is  astonished  by  their 
almost  super-lifelike  solidity;  and  the  subjective 
emotion  of  form  produced  by  Cezanne,  once  ex- 
perienced, is  never  forgotten.  It  is  these  formal 
qualities  in  Rubens,  Renoir  and  Cezanne  which 
halt  us  and  lead  us  into  the  intellectual  order  of 
the  picture.  Thus  in  music.  The  score  dominates 
and  moves  us  more  when  we  hear  it  played  than 
when  we  merely  read  it. 


ART  AND  LIFE  83 


62. 


Conception  of  the  Great  Idea. — Every  idea, 
from  infancy  to  old  age,  is  motivated  by  man's 
contact  with  the  objective  world.  A  conscious  ef- 
fort toward  great  thought  ends  either  in  chaos  or 
in  an  abstract  triviality.  Great  ideas,  like  all  sig- 
nificant achievements  in  life,  come  only  as  a  result 
of  certain  perfect  conditions;  and  these  perfect 
conditions  are  what  give  birth  to  one's  ability  to 
separate  ideas  which  are  sterile  from  ideas  preg- 
nant with  possibility.  The  artist's  process  of 
thought  is  like  an  arithmetical  progression.  He 
conceives  a  trivial  idea  from  his  contact  with  ex- 
terior nature.  Something  in  this  trivial  idea, 
after  a  period  of  analysis,  calls  up  another  idea 
which,  in  turn,  develops,  through  volitional  asso- 
ciation, into  a  group  of  ideas.  And  this  group 
becomes,  for  him,  the  basis  of  constructive  think- 
ing, replacing,  as  it  were,  the  original  basis  of 
objectivity.  From  his  segregation  and  arrange- 
ment of  these  ideas,  which  are  no  longer  directly 
inspired  by  nature,  there  springs  the  great  idea. 
It  is  the  golden  link  in  a  chain  of  trivial  ideas — 
the  heritor  of  an  intrinsically  worthless  thought. 
An  artist's  intellectual  significance  lies  in  his 
power  to  presage  instinctively  the  future  impor- 
tance of  seemingly  inconsequential  reactions,  for 
a  great  thought,  like  a  great  mind  or  epoch,  is 


84  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

not  an  isolated  phenomenon,  the  result  of  an  ac- 
cident. It  is  subject  to  the  same  laws  of  evolu- 
tion and  growth  as  is  the  human  body.  That  is 
why  one  can  never  consciously  force  great  think- 
ing; it  is  impossible  to  call  up  that  particular 
group  of  trivial  objective  ideas  which,  when  an- 
alysed and  augmented,  will  generate  the  great 
idea.  This  is  true  also  of  those  creative  processes 
which  result  in  concrete  manifestations.  A  mu- 
sician cannot  force  himself  to  play  impromptu 
a  masterpiece,  even  though  he  be  a  master.  Here 
again  the  combination  of  circumstances  must  be 
au  point  before  his  creative  faculties  are  in  their 
highest  state  of  fluency.  But  when  he  recognises 
a  pregnant  musical  form  which  casually  results 
from  idle  improvisation,  he  may  develop  and  con- 
tinue it,  add  to  it  and  take  from  it,  until,  at  last, 
the  final  form  of  the  composition  appears.  The 
generation  of  great  ideas  is  analogous  to  the  gen- 
eration of  great  forms.  In  lesser  men  the  begin- 
nings of  a  great  idea  are  passed  over  unnoticed. 


Art's  Indirect  Progress. — The  evolution  of 
art  is  no  more  mechanical  than  the  development 
of  the  individual.  In  it  there  are  irregularities, 
retrogressions,  forward  spurts,  divagations,  dis- 
tractions.    At  one  time  it  goes   ahead  rapidly; 


ART  AND  LIFE  85 

at  another,  it  seems  to  halt.  There  are  periods 
of  darkness  and  stagnation  as  well  as  periods 
of  swift  and  splendid  development.  Some  men 
carry  forward  the  spirit  of  research;  others,  em- 
ploying the  qualities  which  have  been  handed 
down  to  them,  breathe  into  old  inspirations  the 
flame  of  individual  idiosyncrasy.  During  one  era 
there  will  be  a  progress  in  principles ;  during  an- 
other era  progress  will  have  to  do  entirely  with 
means.  Every  new  movement  has  about  it  a  cer- 
tain isolation  of  ambition  and  aspiration.  The 
first  innovators  push  out  the  boundary  on  one 
side ;  their  followers,  on  another ;  and  the  final  ex- 
ponents of  an  epoch,  having  fully  assimilated 
what  has  preceded  them,  combine  the  endeavours 
and  accomphshments  of  their  forerunners  and 
create  new  and  lasting  forms. 


64^. 

Art  and  Those  Who  Observe  Life. — The 
man  who  is  most  easily  turned  toward  art  and  in 
whom  a  love  of  aesthetic  form  can  be  readily  devel- 
oped, is  the  one  who  has  keenly  observed  the  ap- 
pearances of  life,  and  who,  as  a  consequence,  has 
posed  problems  which  mere  collections  of  data 
cannot  solve.  Such  a  man  is  ever  searching  for  a 
firm  foundation  on  which  to  base  his  speculations ; 
and  once  he  has  discovered  the  philosophical  con- 


86  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

tent  of  art,  he  will  know  that  he  can  find  there  a 
solution  to  his  problems  and  a  rationale  for  fu- 
ture observations.  Art  will  turn  him  from  his  em- 
piricism to  naturalistic  truths — not  by  systems 
of  theory  or  by  absolute  answers,  but  by  preg- 
nant suggestion. 

65. 

The  Universai>  in  Art. — Not  until  the  facts 
of  art  are  dissociated  from  the  individual — that 
is,  are  separated  from  all  personal  considerations 
— has  the  intellect  been  brought  to  bear  on  aes- 
thetics. Only  the  impersonal  can  attain  to  im- 
mortality :  it  belongs  to  no  cult,  no  period,  no  one 
body  of  men:  it  reflects  the  whole  of  life,  and  its 
vision  is  the  universal  vision  of  mankind.  Art 
is  the  mouthpiece  of  the  will  of  nature,  namely, 
the  complete,  unified  intelligence  of  life — that  in- 
telligence of  which  each  individual  is  only  an  off- 
shoot, or,  rather,  a  minute  part.  An  artist's 
mind,  in  the  act  of  creating,  is  only  an  outlet  of 
that  intelligence.  Art  is  the  restatement  of  life 
— a  glimpse,  brought  to  a  small  focus,  of  the  cre- 
ative laws  of  nature.  It  reveals  the  universal  will, 
the  machinery,  as  it  were,  of  the  human  drama; 
and  in  our  appreciation  of  it  we  are  exalted  be- 
cause in  it  we  experience,  not  a  segment  of  life, 
but  the  entire  significance  of  life.     Thus  can  be 


ART  AND  LIFE  87 

accounted  for  art's  philosophic,  as  well  as  its  hu- 
manly concrete,  side. 

66. 

Aet  and  Nature. — Art  does  not  show  man  the 
way  to  nature.  Rather  does  it  lead  him  via  na- 
ture to  knowledge. 


11 

PROBLEMS  OF  ^ESTHETICS 


67. 

Media  of  Art. — The  medium  of  painting  is 
colour.  The  medium  of  music  is  sound.  The  me- 
dium of  literature  is  document.  /Esthetic  form  is 
produced  by  the  arrangement  and  co-ordination 
of  the  differentiations  of  these  media. 

68. 

Representative  and  Abstract  Art. — The 
person  who  reacts  only  to  drawings  or  paintings 
which  depict  and  order  objective  nature,  and  who 
is  unable  to  follow  those  artists  who  carry  their 
creations  into  the  realms  of  subjective  and  ab- 
stract organisation,  is  the  one  whose  appreciation 
is  founded  on  other  than  purely  aesthetic  consid- 
erations. When  contemplating  a  picture  which 
has  for  its  subject  recognisable  objects  which  the 
painter  has,  to  some  extent,  distorted  in  order  to 
make  them  fit  a  general  plan,  the  defenders  of 
representation  are  satisfied  with  it,  provided  the 
order  is  com.plete.  They  feel  in  the  canvas  a  sen- 
sitivity to  nature  on  the  part  of  the  artist ;  and  if 
that  sensitivity  is  subtle  and  profound,  they  ex- 
perience the  intense  memory-life  which  is  therein 
expressed.     And  at  the   same  time,  but  second- 

91 


92  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

arily^  they  feel  a  satisfactory  sense  of  completion, 
and  reconstruct  the  picture's  generating  rhythms 
which  lead  to  a  formal  climax.  In  addition,  there 
is  an  associative  satisfaction  aroused  by  the  ob- 
jects themselves:  the  perfume  of  flowers,  the  cool- 
ness of  trees,  the  mystery  of  hills,  the  grandeur 
and  implacability  of  the  sea,  etc.  .  .  .  Thus  there 
are  three  sets  of  stimuli — the  poetical,  the  em- 
pathic,  and  the  associative — which  these  lovers  of 
representation  come  to  look  upon  as  constituents 
of  aesthetic  enjoyment.  Therefore  when  they 
stand  before  a  picture  in  which  there  is  neither  a 
poetical  nor  an  associative  appeal,  they  immedi- 
ately conclude  that  there  exists  in  it  neither  sen- 
sitivity nor  order:  they  can  find  no  related  ob- 
jects, such  as  houses,  trees  and  hills ;  nor  can  they 
see  the  dominance  of  certain  colours,  like  green 
or  grey  or  brown  in  landscapes.  This  conclusion, 
however,  is  erroneous,  for  such  groups  of  ob- 
jects and  such  dominance  of  colours  only  super- 
ficially weld  a  picture  into  a  whole;  and  the  as- 
sociations of  smell,  temperature  and  the  like  be- 
long wholly  to  the  illustrative  or  literary  side  of 
art.  In  an  abstract  picture  the  sensitivity  of 
the  artist  must  be  much  greater  than  in  a  rep- 
resentative one.  Where  in  the  latter  the  artist 
merely  refines  and  orders  seen  colours,  in  the  ab- 
stract paintings  he  uses  a  greater  range  of  more 
intense  colours  and  is  necessitated  to  create  new 


PROBLEMS  OF  ESTHETICS  93 

forms.  In  order  for  him  to  accomplish  this  task 
his  sensitivity  to  formal  sequence  must  be  devel- 
oped to  a  degree  where  it  becomes  almost  a  new 
sense;  and  his  colour  appreciation  must  be  the 
outgrowth  of  a  knowledge  of  the  very  function- 
ing qualities  of  colour.  To  draw  an  exquisite  for- 
mal conception  of  the  human  body  requires  genius, 
but  genius  whose  ability  lies  really  in  re-creating. 
Abstract  forms  require  pure  creative  ability. 
When  a  picture  of  objective  nature  is  perfect, 
save,  perhaps,  for  two  inharmonious  colours,  we 
may  overlook  the  fault.  But  in  an  abstract  pic- 
ture such  an  error  spells  disintegration  of  the 
work  as  a  whole.  Thus  the  artist's  sensitivity  has 
to  become  redoubled  for  abstract  forms,  because 
the  slightest  misstep  means  failure.  Abstract 
form  is  not,  as  is  popularly  believed,  emancipa- 
tion. It  makes  the  supremest  demands  on  the 
artist,  by  tightening  his  order  and  by  intensify- 
ing his  vision. 

69. 

The  Four  Interpretations  of  Artistic 
Form. — Form,  in  the  artistic  sense,  has  four  in- 
terpretations. First,  it  exhibits  itself  as  shallow 
imitation  in  painting,  as  reportorial  realism  in 
literature,  and  as  simple  tune  in  music.  (Sorolla, 
Zola  and  Rubinstein  make  use  of  this  type  of 
form.)     Secondly,  it  contains  qualities  of  solidity 


94  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

and  competent  construction  such  as  are  found  in 
the  paintings  of  Velazquez,  the  novels  of  Tourgue^ 
nieiF  and  the  music  of  Liszt.  Thirdly,  it  shows 
signs  of  having  been  arbitrarily  arranged  for  the 
purpose  of  volumnear  accentuation.  (Poussin, 
George  Moore  and  Wagner  represent  this  devel- 
opment of  form.)  Last,  form  reveals  itself,  not 
as  an  objective  thing,  but  as  an  abstract  phe- 
nomenon capable  of  giving  the  sensation  of  palpa- 
bility. All  great  art — the  art  of  Rubens  and 
Michelangelo,  Balzac  and  Flaubert,  Bach  and 
Beethoven — falls  under  this  final  interpretation. 

70. 

Subjective  and  Objective  Form. — In  art^ 
form  may  be  either  objective  or  subjective.  That 
is  to  say,  there  is  the  form  which  we  recognise 
as  such  through  its  familiar  contours,  like  the  ob- 
jects in  a  Chardin  stilHife.  This  form  is  lim- 
ited in  size  by  our  knowledge  of  the  actual  ob- 
ject which  it  represents.  This  is  objective  or 
quantitative  form;  and  its  perception  is  largely 
the  result  of  our  associative  processes.  Again, 
there  is  that  form  which  has  no  counterpart  in 
actual  Hfe.  It  is  without  measurable  dimensions, 
its  size  being  relative  to  the  other  forms  about  it. 
It  does  not  represent  any  specific  object  with 
which  we  are  familiar:  we  simply  feel  its  tactility 


PROBLEMS  OF  AESTHETICS  95 

qualitatively.  All  great  works  of  art  contain 
this  type  of  form,  whether  it  is  presented  ab- 
stractly or  through  recognisable  phenomena:  in 
the  latter  case  the  objects  cease  to  exist  as  ob- 
jects, and  create  in  us  an  emotion  of  form  as  in 
contradistinction  to  a  recognition  of  form. 

71. 

Difference  Between  Volume  and  Foem. — 
When  two  or  more  unrelated  colours  or  sound- 
masses  are  in  close  juxtaposition,  the  inherent 
tendency  of  certain  colours  and  notes  to  recede, 
to  advance,  or  to  appear  opaque  or  transparent, 
gives  birth,  in  the  spectator,  to  a  consciousness 
of  spatial  extension — that  is,  of  a  quality  of 
shape  which  exists  in  depth  as  well  as  on  a  sur- 
face: in  other  words,  a  feeling  of  volume.  This 
volume,  because  of  its  unorganised  contours,  ap- 
pears to  exist  as  a  haphazard  and  formless  shape, 
like  a  gas ;  and,  by  reason  of  its  formal  indefinite- 
ness,  it  cannot  produce  in  us  an  emotion  of  satis- 
faction. It  is  only  when  such  a  volume  becomes 
an  integral,  precise  and  complete  part  of  an  or- 
ganisation— whether  that  part  be  abstract,  ob- 
jective or  imaginary — that  it  becomes  form  in 
the  esthetic  sense.  Then  its  recognisability,  or 
its  definite  adaptability,  makes  it  possible  for  us 
to  react  to   it  pleasurably.     Hence:     Volume  is 


96  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

abstract  substance,  either  actual  or  imaginary, 
without  definite  delimitations.  Form  is  volume 
delimited  and  related  to  an  organisation. 

TwO-DlMENSIONAIi      AND      ThREE-DiMENSIONAL 

Form. — The  form  in  the  world's  greatest  art  is 
three-dimensional.  It  not  only  moves  laterally, 
but  orientates  in  depth  as  well.  Polyphony  is 
three-dimensioned  music,  and  corresponds  to  the 
form  in  Michelangelo  and  Rubens.  It  also  has  a 
parallel  in  that  literature  in  which  the  document 
has  been  given  a  solidity,  as  in  Balzac.  Exam- 
ples: Beethoven's  Ninth  Symphony — the  Kermis 
— Illusions  Perdues.  Melody,  or  homophony,  is 
two-dimensional  form  and  corresponds  to  the  dec- 
orative type  of  painting,  such  as  Picasso's  draw- 
ings, Japanese  art  and  the  canvases  of  Botticelli. 
Its  literary  analogy  is  to  be  found  in  the  simple 
objective  tale — the  novels  of  Gautier,  for  in- 
stance. Examples:  Schubert's  Seventh  (C-ma- 
jor)  Symphony — Botticelli's  Spring — Mademoi- 
selle de  Maupin.  In  all  these  examples  there  is, 
of  course,  more  than  the  mere  form.  Their  form 
is  here  considered  only  from  the  qualitative  stand- 
point. Each  of  these  works  has  been  arranged 
and  composed;  that  is,  their  form  has  been 
made  rhythmic. 


PROBLEMS  OF  .ESTHETICS  9T 

73. 

Qualitative  Analogies  in  the  Different 
Arts. — The  form  in  all  the  arts  must  be  related 
in  its  details  as  well  as  in  its  largest  aspects. 
That  is,  we  must  be  able,  first,  to  appreciate  the 
mutual  dependence  of  the  successive  factors  of 
an  art  (the  notes  in  music,  the  colours  in  paint- 
ing, and  the  words  in  literature)  ;  and,  secondly? 
to  co-ordinate  all  of  these  dependent  factors  into 
a  unified  whole.  The  first  relationship  is  estab- 
lished in  music  by  tempo  (or  accent)  ;  in  painting, 
by  line  (or  outline)  ;  in  literature,  by  cadence  (or, 
in  poetry,  by  metre).  The  second,  and  larger, 
coherence  is  dependent  upon  the  tonality  (or  key) 
in  music;  upon  the  lighting  (or  tonality)  in 
painting;  and  upon  the  thought  in  literature. 
The  laws  of  progression  and  coherence  are  iden- 
tical with  the  laws  which  govern  all  physiological 
and  psychological  activities,  and  are  in  harmony 
with  our  universal  experience.  In  their  present 
statement  they  are  merely  limited  to  the  aesthetic 
principle. 

74. 

Quantitative  Analogies  in  the  Different 
Arts. — After  having  established  the  psychologi- 
cal methods  by  which  coherence  is  perceived  in 
both  its  minor  and  its  major  aspects,  it  is  neces- 


98  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

sary  to  define  the  substance  or  the  material  upon 
which  these  laws  are  operative.  The  mere  quan- 
titative cohesion  of  a  work  of  art  has  to  do  with 
sound  in  music;  with  volumes  in  paintmg;  and 
with  subject-matter  (or  document)  in  literature. 
These  are  the  media  of  the  arts ;  and  once  tempo 
(the  delimitation  of  sound),  line  or  outline  (the 
delimitation  of  volume),  and  cadence  or  metre 
(the  delimitation  of  words)  have  been  applied  to 
these  media,  we  have  specific  shapes  upon  which  to 
work.  There  is  a  perfect  analogy  between  the 
themes  (or  phrases)  in  music,  the  forms  in  paint- 
ing, and  the  episodes  in  literature  (or  the  phrases 
in  poetry).  These  are  the  material  entities  of 
the  arts;  and  their  larger  co-ordination — i.  e., 
their  synthesis  into  a  coherent  whole — is  brought 
about  (in  music)  by  a  unity  of  tonality,  or  key; 
(in  painting)  by  a  unity  of  lighting,  or  tonality; 
and  (in  literature)  by  a  unity  of  thought.  Their 
organisation  into  a  perfect  plastic  ensemble  is 
accomphshed  by  the  introduction  of  aesthetic 
rhythm — poise,  balance  and  symmetry. 

75. 

The  Two  Types  of  Composition  in  the  Arts. 
— There  are  two  types  of  composition  in  the  arts. 
First,  there  is  the  simple  block  form  of  composi- 
tion   wherein    all    the    parts    are   solidly    related 


PROBLEMS  OF  ESTHETICS  99 

and  woven  into  a  harmony  which  presents  itself 
to  our  emotions  as  a  complete  and  satisfying  en- 
semble. This  type  may  he  likened  to  a  hundred 
shapes  of  rocks  and  trees  rising  into  the  air  and 
then  suddenly  coalescing  into  a  unified,  simulta- 
neous impression  of  a  mountain.  The  second  and 
generally  more  complex  type  of  composition  is 
possessed  of  a  rhythmic  order  which,  while  retain- 
ing the  sohdity  and  simultaneous  order  of  the 
first,  gives  us  the  emotion  of  an  eternally  moving 
form,  shifting  and  flowing,  yet  at  the  same  time 
satisfying  and  final.  This  second  type  is  the 
higher  sesthetic  form.  The  former  is,  to  some  ex- 
tent, static  and  more  primary,  being  merely  the 
perfect  conjunction  of  many  parts  into  one  full 
and  united  climax  of  ensemble  effect ;  whereas  the 
latter,  though  final  and  complete,  evokes,  by 
means  of  its  wholly  natural  method  of  gestation, 
an  emotion  of  continuous  movement  toward  a  cli- 
max which  has  already  been  reached.  While  per- 
fectly ordered,  it  is  conceived  as  an  eternal  be- 
coming, like  life  itself:  its  beginning  and  end  are 
synchronous.  In  music  this  style  of  composition 
is  represented  by  the  symphony's  separate  move- 
ments wherein  a  formal  musical  idea  (in  no  mat- 
ter how  many  figures  divided)  serves  as  the  gen- 
erator of  the  succeeding  forms  which  evolve  to- 
ward an  apex  and  conclusion.  But  though  each 
movement  separately  may  be  of  the  higher  type 


100  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

of  natural  rhythmic  order,  the  four  symphonic 
movements  together  are  too  widely  spaced  and 
emotionally  contrasted  to  be  more  than  a  block- 
manifestation.  The  human  mind  is  incapable  of 
spanning  their  hiatuses  of  time  and  form,  and  of 
feeling  them  as  parts  of  a  same  rhythm,  although 
it  may  recognise  them  as  such.  The  block  order 
exists  more  purely  in  the  fugue  where  a  definite 
subject  dominates,  develops  in  a  somewhat  fixed 
and  predetermined  manner,  and  reverts  at  the 
end  to  a  restatement.  The  fugue  presents  a  sub- 
jective vision  of  circular  form  whose  extent, 
shape  and  result  are  one,  and  whose  finale  and 
inception  touch.  The  fugue's  one  motivating  idea 
is  the  cause  of  this  block  form,  because  it  creates 
a  single  type-atmosphere  around  a  hub  of 
thought.  Opera  music,  which  at  its  best  embodies 
brilliant  bits  of  both  compositional  types  artifi- 
cially joined  by  dull  and  forced  passages,  can  be 
likened  to  a  long  frieze.  A  frieze  is  strung  to- 
gether on  the  thread  of  literary  unity ;  and  though 
it  may  be  perfect  in  its  parts,  in  its  entirety  it  is 
without  form.  In  literature  we  have,  first,  a  kind 
of  "theme  with  variations"  which  represents  the 
block  type  of  composition,  and,  secondly,  the  se- 
quential development  of  ideas  which  constitutes 
the  logical  rhythmic  order.  In  this  latter  type 
every  new  action  is  a  result  of  what  precedes  it, 
just  as  in  that  music  whose  every  form  grows  nat- 


PROBLEMS  OF  ESTHETICS        101 

urally  out  of  an  initial  one.  Balzac  at  times  rep- 
resents this  higher  type  of  complexly  ordered 
composition — the  type  in  which  an  idea  serves  as 
a  soil  from  which  the  story  springs  and  grows. 
The  biography  of  Lucien  de  Rubempre  is  one  of 
the  world's  literary  masterpieces  for  this  reason; 
whereas  Pere  Goriot,  in  which  an  idea  is  the  hub 
around  which  the  book  circularly  revolves,  tends 
more  to  the  block  order.  Conrad's  Nostromo  and 
Lord  Jim  belong  to  the  fugue,  or  block,  type  of 
composition :  they  are  developed  statements  of  a 
theme — complete  ideas  whose  end  is,  to  a  great 
extent,  foreseen.  Youth  and  Victory^  however, 
grow  naturally  and  sequentially,  as  man  himself 
grows,  from  a  nucleus  to  a  maturity  and  climax. 
In  painting,  whose  conception  of  composition  has 
always  been  in  advance  of  the  other  arts  and  of 
its  own  medium  of  development,  these  two  types 
of  composition  are  less  difficult  to  determine.  Pri- 
marily there  can  exist  only  a  block-order  in  real- 
istic pictures — that  is,  in  pictures  of  naturalis- 
tically  lighted  landscape,  still-lives,  etc. — because 
the  proportions  and  arrangements  act  as  the 
dominating  idea;  and  any  aesthetic  distortions  or 
rearrangements  serve  only  to  tigMen  the  relation- 
ship of  objects  or  shapes  already  seen.  Arbi- 
trary arrangements  of  still-lives  or  landscapes 
which  are  painted  without  models  are  not  realistic 
in  the  strict  sense  of  the  word,  and  are  suscepti- 


102  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

ble  of  rhythmicising.  But  to  see  the  finest  ex- 
amples of  rhythmic  composition  one  must  go  to 
such  men  as  Rubens,  Renoir,  Veronese  and  El 
Greco,  most  of  whose  compositional  steps  were 
dictated  wholly  by  the  logic  of  aesthetic  evolution. 
These  men,  in  painting  realistic  bodies  without 
realistic  lighting,  cared  so  little  for  realism,  as 
such,  that  they  made  use  of  allegorical' animals 
and  placed  wings  upon  human  beings  merely  in 
order  to  attain  to  a  greater  and  purer  order. 
They  did  not  work  toward  a  climaoo  of  moveTnent 
but  toward  a  completion  of  movement^  and  the 
formal  order  of  their  work  was  in  no  way  con- 
nected with,  or  dictated  by,  the  subject  (or  idea) 
treated. 


76. 

Composition  the  Primary  Consideration 
Even  in  Ancient  Art. — It  is  difficult  to  make 
people  believe  that  the  great  old  masters  were 
primarily  interested  in  composition — that  is,  in 
the  order  of  form — and  that  the  subjects,  or 
ideas,  of  their  paintings  constituted  an  aesthetic 
arriere  pensee.  But  regard,  for  instance,  Samt 
Ignatius  of  Loyola  Healing  the  Sick  and  the  Last 
Judgment  of  the  Pinakothek.  In  the  first  canvas 
we  find  an  almost  frenzied  rhythmic  movement; 
and,  in  the  second,  there  is  a  marked  composi- 


PROBLEMS  OF  ESTHETICS        103 

tional  calm.  The  subjects  of  these  canvases  in 
no  way  influence  the  selection  of  such  divergent 
organisational  bases.  The  pictures  attest  to  the 
fact  that  Rubens's  first  consideration  was  ab- 
stract form.  The  representative  side  of  the  pic- 
tures was  wholly  secondary,  if  not,  indeed,  inci- 
dental. The  importance  of  these  works  lies,  not 
in  their  subjects,  but  in  their  rhythmic  presenta- 
tion of  form. 

77. 

Illustrative  and  -Esthetic  Functioning  in 
Art. — The  finality  and  satisfaction  resulting 
from  musical  sound  returning  to  the  tonic  are  due 
to  association  inasmuch  as  a  melody  at  bottom  is 
a  series  of  conversational  inflections  translated 
into  the  purity  of  notes.  Illustrative  music  is 
merely  a  swinging  or  rhythmic  oratory,  wherein 
the  words  are  abandoned  for  a  more  intensified 
vehicle  of  expression;  and  it  is  written  for  the 
purpose  of  giving  an  emotional  and  not  an  (Es- 
thetic eff'ect.  Illustrative  painting  of  the  better 
kind  accomplishes  the  same  end.  It  evokes 
scenes,  characters,  and  atmospheres  which  are 
emotional  but  unsesthetic.  Likewise,  literature 
which  is  created  for  the  sole  purpose  of  record- 
ing documentary  information  makes  no  aesthetic 
appeal.     However,  within  all  this  illustrative  ma- 


104  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

terial,  there  exist  formal  potentialities  which  are 
susceptible  of  actualisation  into  an  aesthetic  en- 
tity. In  music  it  is  impossible  to  escape  entirely 
from  the  oratorical  form,  for  this  is  the  form 
on  which  all  music  is  primarily  based;  but  if,  in- 
stead of  using  notes  merely  for  intensifying  con- 
versational experience,  the  composer  regards  them 
as  a  pure  medium  whose  only  restrictions  are  or- 
ganisational, great  music  results.  In  this  case, 
music  does  not  hold  to  the  logic  of  oratory;  in- 
stead, the  inflection  of  oratory  is  the  means  to 
an  ordered  end.  The  compositional  shape  is  in- 
fluenced solely  by  the  consideration  of  completing 
the  original  form  motive.  Painting,  following  the 
same  laws,  uses,  in  its  assthetic  capacity,  natural 
forms  (changed  and  shifted  to  meet  the  require- 
ments of  rhythmic  composition)  irrespective  of 
their  natural  environmental  logic.  Literature, 
which  necessarily  deals  in  document  even  when 
aesthetically  creative,  bends  the  inevitable  form  of 
idea  to  a  sequential  order  which  becomes  subjec- 
tively solid.  Thus,  in  music,  the  character  of  hu- 
man conversation  is  utilised  for  complete  formal 
achievements.  In  painting,  aesthetic  enjoyment 
depends  on  the  approximation  of  the  forms  to 
the  balance  of  the  human  body.  And,  in  litera- 
ture, the  formal  justness  is  dictated  by  the  psy- 
chology of  logic  and  penetration. 


PROBLEMS  OF  ESTHETICS        105 

78. 

The  Esthetic  Rationale. — Do  not  consider 
the  arts  as  isolated  and  independent,  each  gov- 
erned by  its  own  laws.  The  laws  which  apply  to 
one  art  will  apply  with  equal  fitness  to  any  other 
art.  What  is  basically  true  of  one  art  is  true 
of  all  the  others:  seek  for  the  assthetic  analogy. 
Precisely  the  same  reactions  are  expressed  by 
painting,  music  and  literature;  and  these  reac- 
tions are  expressed  in  the  same  aesthetic  manner. 
Only  the  media  differ.  You  cannot  know  one  art 
a  fond  without  knowing  all  the  others;  or,  to 
state  the  proposition  conversely,  it  is  necessary 
to  know  all  the  arts  fundamentally  before  you  can 
truly  grasp  one  of  them.  The  emotional  effects 
of  the  various  arts  are  superficially  dissimilar; 
but  the  principles  do  not  vary. 

79. 

Analogies  Between  the  Arts. — There  is  no 
abstract  quality  of  a  rhythmic  nature  in  any  one 
art  which  does  not  have  an  analogy  in  the  other 
arts.  Because  music  was  the  first  art  to  become 
abstract,  we  have  an  aesthetic  musical  nomencla- 
ture ;  and  generally  it  is  necessary  to  use  musical 
terms  in  describing  corresponding  qualities  in 
literature,  drawing,  painting  and  sculpture. 


106  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

80. 

Melody. — Melody  is  the  simplest  form  of  art 
which  has  passed  beyond  mere  primitive  rhythm. 
It  is  common  to  all  the  arts,  for  though  it  has  a 
definite  musical  connotation,  it  may  be  applied 
figuratively  to  the  other  arts.  Melody  is  merely 
rhythm  applied  to  two-dimensional  form — audi- 
tory, visual  or  documentary.  The  form-essence 
of  pure  melody  is  linear.  In  drawing  or  painting 
it  is  commonly  called  decoration  or  design.  In 
literature  it  is  the  simple  tale  which  has  been  deli- 
cately composed.  Pure  musical  melody  exists 
without  accompaniment:  it  is  a  series  of  single 
notes.  Its  parallel  in  the  graphic  arts  is  a  line 
drawing  in  which  the  linear  cadence  is  the  final  ef- 
fect sought  for.  In  literature  it  is  the  episodic 
story. 

81. 

HoMOPHONy. — Homophony  is  the  structural 
augmentation  of  melody,  or  melody  resting  on  its 
bases  of  chord  sequences :  melody  with  an  accom- 
paniment. The  analogy  of  homophony  in  the 
graphic  arts  would  be  a  linear  drawing,  or  paint- 
ing, to  which  were  added  masses  or  volumes  of 
tonality — light  and  dark  or  coloured  patches 
which  sustained  and  accorded  with  the  linear  di- 
rections.    The  chords,  or  bases,  on  which  a  mel- 


PROBLEMS  OF  ESTHETICS        107 

ody  rests — or,  more  accurately,  the  remainders 
of  the  broken-up  chords  from  which  the  melody 
was  lifted — correspond  to  the  tonal  masses  in  two- 
dimensional  drawing  or  painting.  In  literature 
the  eiFect  of  homophony  is  obtained  in  a  more 
arbitrary  manner.  If  to  the  simple  episodic  story, 
such  as  a  folk  tale  or  a  Boccaccio  novella,  should 
be  added  a  foundation  of  descriptive  or  historical 
material  which  augmented  and  filled  out  the  nar- 
rative without  altering  its  formal  development, 
the  result  would  correspond  to  musical  ho- 
mophony. 

Polyphony. — Polyphony  is  three-dimensional 
auditory  form  into  which  has  been  introduced 
rhythm.  During  the  interweaving  of  two  or  more 
melodies,  the  musical  form  is  multilinear  and 
moves  in  depth  as  well  as  laterally  or  "vertically." 
Here  the  masses  and  volumes  are  made  up  of  the 
extensional  relationships  of  the  numerous  melodic 
lines,  and  are  an  integral  part  of  the  aesthetic 
structure.  The  dominant  melody  represents 
merely  that  surface  of  the  form  which  is  most  evi- 
dent to  the  ear,  in  the  same  way  that  a  certain  as- 
pect of  a  painted  form  is  most  apparent  to  the 
eye.  There  are  parallels  for  polyphony  in  liter- 
ature and  painting.  A  book  which  possesses  doc- 
umentary solidity  and  which  has  been  composed 


108  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

rhythmically  in  accord  with  aesthetic  development, 
is — figuratively — polyphonic.  The  plot  is  merely 
the  dominant  melody,  and  bears  the  same  relation 
to  the  whole  that  the  dominant  melody  bears  to 
the  complete  form  of  a  polyphonic  piece  of  music. 
In  drawing  there  can  be  no  polyphony  because 
black  and  white  cannot  give  the  emotion  of  depth. 
But  in  painting  where  the  linear  forms  relate 
themselves  rhythmically  to  one  another  in  three 
dimensions  we  have  an  exact  analogy  to  musical 
polyphony.  Here,  too,  there  may  be  a  dominant 
linear  melody. 

83. 

Simultaneity  in  Art. — ^Although  the  percep- 
tion of  beauty — that  is,  of  form — is  never  simul- 
taneous, since  it  requires  a  series  of  movements 
and  necessitates  a  process  of  comparison  and  ad- 
justments which  can  be  made  only  by  the  act  of 
memory  and  shape-projection,  nevertheless  the 
effect  of  beauty  is  simultaneous.  It  may  take  us 
an  hour  or  more  to  absorb  or  to  find  the  aesthetic 
form,  as  in  listening  to  a  symphony,  or  in  reading 
a  book,  or  in  studying  the  ramifications  of  a  pic- 
ture's composition;  but  when  we  have  followed 
the  lines  of  the  form  to  their  completion  and  are 
conscious  of  the  unity  of  their  direction  and  in- 
terrelations, we  receive,  in  an  immeasurably  brief 


PROBLEMS  OF  ESTHETICS        109 

instant  of  time,  the  unified  effect  of  the  whole.  It 
is  hke  a  sudden  flash:  our  memory  has  retained 
and  built  up  accumulatively  all  that  has  taken 
place  during  our  long  process  of  absorption  or 
comprehension.  If,  while  w^e  are  listening  to  a 
perfectly  constructed  sonata,  it  should  suddenly 
cease  at  the  beginning  of  the  coda,  let  us  say,  we 
would  be  left  with  a  feeling  of  incompleteness: 
we  would  fail  to  react  to  its  form.  The  same 
sensation  or  feeling  of  incompleteness  would  be 
ours  if  we  closed  a  book  when  part  way  through  it, 
or  if  we  regarded  a  picture  which  was  partially 
concealed.  In  all  such  cases  we  would  have  cur- 
tailed our  contemplation  during  the  process  of 
absorption;  and  our  aesthetic  reaction  would  not 
fully  take  place.  That  which  is  necessary  for  our 
complete  satisfaction  is  the  very  last  note  or  chord 
of  a  piece  of  music,  the  final  episode  in  a  book, 
and  the  ultimate  curve  or  volume  in  a  picture's  or- 
ganisational scheme.  When  we  have  reached  this 
final  point  in  a  work  of  art,  our  memory,  which 
has  retained  every  step  through  which  our  con- 
sciousness has  passed  in  the  contemplative  proc- 
ess, reconstructs  the  whole.  We  then  have  an  in- 
stantaneous vision  of  the  entire  form  which  may 
have  taken  hours  to  unroll.  In  that  instant  of 
realisation  we  receive  our  keenest  sense  of  beauty, 
for  in  that  instant  we  react  to  a  formal  unity. 
This   sudden   coalescence   of  memory   constitutes 


110  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

the  simvltaneity  which  characterises   all  aesthet- 
ically constructed  art  works. 

84. 

The  Primitive  Demand  for  Symmetry.— In 
the  perception  of  form  we  always  relate  that  form 
to  ourselves — that  is,  to  the  conditions  of  our 
own  bodily  consciousness.  Perceiving  form  neces- 
sitates certain  muscular,  auditory  or  optical  ac- 
tivities on  our  part;  and  the  character  of  the 
form  regulates  those  activities.  Thus,  in  looking 
at  a  flagpole,  our  eyes  must  travel  up  and  down: 
we  cannot  perceive  the  flagpole  by  moving  our 
eyes  to  the  right  or  left.  All  forms  therefore 
produce  in  us  certain  corresponding  movements; 
or  rather,  our  movements,  since  they  are  volun- 
tary and  active,  determine  the  form.  Now,  since 
our  consciousness  of  bodily  existence  is  based  on 
an  ever-present  sense  of  balance  (our  ability  to 
stand  without  falling),  it  is  our  instinct,  when 
making  a  muscular  movement  which  would  tend 
to  destroy  that  balance,  to  make  a  counter-move- 
ment for  the  purpose  of  preserving  our  equilib- 
rium. The  involuntary  adjustments  of  the  body 
have  for  their  purpose  a  balance  of  weights  which 
will  be  equal  on  either  side  of  our  centre  of  grav- 
ity. In  the  contemplation  of  form  the  same  proc- 
ess takes  place,  since  it  is  our  movements  which 


PROBLEMS  OF  /ESTHETICS        111 

determine  form  perception.  For  example,  draw 
a  heavy  line  to  the  left  of  the  centre  of  a  piece 
of  paper.  We  feel  an  incompleteness  when  view- 
ing it:  we  are  not  at  ease.  Then  draw  a  similar 
line  to  the  right  of  the  paper's  centre.  At  once 
we  feel  a  completion,  a  sense  of  satisfaction.  This 
is  because  we  relate  all  perceived  form  to  a  centre 
of  gravity;  and  if  this  form  is  not  balanced  by 
another  form,  we  undergo  a  process  of  mental  ad- 
justment (analogous  to  physical  adjustment)  by 
desiring  the  other  form.  In  other  words,  we  feel 
a  need  of  a  counter-form.  It  is  our  internal  and 
involuntary  demand  for  balance.  Hence  the 
static  and  primitive  satisfaction  we  experience  in 
the  presence  of  symmetry,  or  symmetrical  de- 
signs ;  and  the  dissatisfaction  we  experience  before 
an  unsym metrical  or  lop-sided  design. 

85. 

Auditory  Symmetry. — Sound-forms  are  per- 
ceived in  the  same  manner  that  visual  forms  are 
perceived.  There  are  auditory  adjustments  anal- 
ogous to  optical  adjustments;  and,  at  bottom, 
they  are,  no  doubt,  muscular,  since  we  vocalise 
sounds  while  listening  to  them,  although  this  vocal- 
isation may  be  silent.  In  short,  sound-forms  are 
determined  by  our  own  physical  movements.  And 
in  the  same  manner  that  we  relate  visual  forms 


112  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

to  a  centre  of  gravity,  and  consider  the  extension 
of  those  forms  as  so  far  to  the  right  or  left,  so  we 
relate  tone-masses  to  a  centre  of  musical  gravity. 
This  centre  is  the  vocal  mean  of  the  human  voice. 
Thus  we  have  standardised  middle  C  (the  C  on 
the  first  line  below  the  treble) ;  and  all  other 
notes  are  either  upper  or  lower  notes.  Middle  C, 
the  centre  of  musical  gravity,  is  that  point  where 
the  bass  clef  runs  into  the  treble  clef.  For  clar- 
ity, let  us  say  that  all  notes  (save  middle  C)  are 
either  to  the  right  or  left  of  this  musical  centre. 
Unconsciously,  we  relate  all  notes  to  this  centre, 
(their  height  or  depth  is  judged  by  their  distance 
from  middle  C)  ;  and  if  the  sound- forms  are  not 
balanced  on  either  side  of  it  (like  visual  forms 
on  either  side  of  a  centre  of  gravity),  we  feel  a 
dissatisfaction  similar  to  the  physical  sensation 
of  being  unbalanced.  Thus  a  chord  or  a  note 
(a  sound-form)  struck  in  the  treble  or  bass  calls 
up  in  us  at  once  a  need  for  a  chord  or  note  in  the 
opposite  clef.  This,  again,  is  our  primitive  de- 
mand for  balance  based  on  physical  consciousness. 
When  the  seen  forms  on  either  side  of  a  centre 
of  gravity  counterbalance  each  other  in  the  static 
sense,  we  have  visual  symmetry.  And  when  the 
heard  forms  on  either  side  of  middle  C — the  centre 
of  musical  gravity — counterbalance  each  other 
statically,  we  have  auditory  symmetry.  The 
felt  need  for  both  is  due,  first,  to  the  fact  that 


PROBLEMS  OF  ESTHETICS        IIS 

equilibrium  is  our  basis  of  physical  consciousness, 
and,  secondly,  to  the  further  fact  that  our  per- 
ception of  form — whether  visual  or  auditory — is 
the  result  of  physical  movements  which,  when  they 
take  place  either  to  the  right  or  left  of  a  pivotal 
centre,  demand  corresponding  movements  on  the 
other  side  in  order  that  the  balance  be  maintained^ 


86. 

BAiiAxcE  OF  Ali.  Elements  in  a  Work  of 
Art. — In  a  work  of  art  there  is  a  balance,  or  an 
approximation  to  stability,  of  linear  directions, 
volumes  and  tonal  masses. 


87. 

Linear  Balance. — A  balance  of  lines — or  an 
approximation  to  a  stability  of  lines — in  a  draw- 
ing or  painting  means  that  the  average  of  their 
oppositional  directions  equals  a  perpendicular 
drawn  from  the  bottom-centre  to  the  top-centre 
of  a  canvas. 

88. 

Balance  of  Tonal  Values. — The  perfection 
of  a  picture  depends  largely  on  the  tonal  symme- 
try, namely,  the  balance  of  light  and  dark  values. 
The  approximation  of  these  values  to  a  stability 


114  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

of  tone  is  quite  as  necessary  to  aesthetic  satisfac- 
tion as  is  the  approximation  of  lines  to  a  stabil- 
ity of  balance.  This  tonal  balance  means  that  the 
sum  total  of  black  and  white  values  equals  perfect 
grey — that  is,  the  exact  tone  of  neutrality  which 
lies  half  way  between  black  and  white.  (In  a 
scale  of  eighty-foui^  notes  from  black  to  white  the 
centre,  or  neutral  mean,  varies  no  more  than  seven 
tones,  or  three  and  a  half  to  either  side.)  Thus 
on  a  canvas  of  exact  neutral  grey,  two  squares 
of  the  same  dimensions,  one  perfect  black  and  the 
other  perfect  white,  will  exactly  balance  each 
other  if  placed  in  symmetrical  opposition  on  either 
side  of  the  centre  of  the  canvas.  When  the  back- 
ground is  raised  from  exact  neutral  grey  to  a 
tone  nearer  white,  the  opposition  on  the  white  side 
lessens ;  and,  as  it  lessens,  the  dimension  of  the 
white  square  must  be  increased  in  ratio  to  the 
tonal  raising  of  the  background;  and  vice  versa 
in  the  case  of  the  black  square,  should  the  back- 
ground be  lowered  in  tone. 

89. 

Balance  of  Sound. — The  balance  of  sound  in 
musical  compositions  is  subject  to  the  same  law 
as  tonal  values.  However,  there  is  this  difference: 
there  is  no  background  in  music  in  the  strict  sense 
of  the  word;  the  form  exists,  as  it  were,  in  noth- 


PROBLEMS  OF  MSTHETICS        115 

ingness.  Therefore  it  is  necessary  to  consider 
notes  solely  in  relation  to  one  another.  Thus  the 
length  of  vibrations  of  notes  is  analogous  to  the 
surface  dimensions  of  black  and  white  masses  in 
drawing.  When,  on  the  background  of  silence, 
or  absence  of  vibration,  we  strike  the  fifth  note 
above  middle  C  with  the  fifth  note  below  middle  C, 
we  are  immediately  struck  by  the  overwhelming 
preponderance  of  the  bass  note,  caused  by  its 
slower  vibration.  Therefore,  in  order  to  counter- 
act the  preponderating  bass  which  results  from 
striking  notes  equidistant  from  middle  C,  we  must 
progress,  not  by  a  ratio  of  distance  (as  in  linear 
symmetry),  but  by  a  ratio  of  vibration.  Glance 
at  the  score  of  any  good  piece  of  piano  music, 
and  you  will  immediately  see  the  preponderance 
of  notes  in  the  treble  which  are  necessary  to 
counterbalance  the  actual  sound  volume  of  the 
longer  vibrating  notes  in  the  bass.  Hence:  In 
music,  a  stability  of  sound  (or  an  auditory  bal- 
ance) means  that  the  average  of  vibrations  of 
all  the  notes  will  equal  middle  C. 


90. 

Balance  of  Colours. — The  problem  of  colour 
balance  is  different  from  both  that  of  tonal  sta- 
bility and  that  of  auditory  stability.      The  col- 


116  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

our  spectrum  runs  from  hot  to  cold,  through  very 
warm,  warm,  cool,  very  cool,  and  all  the  interven- 
ing degrees  of  temperature.  And  not  only  must 
the  minute  parts  of  the  picture  be  balanced  as  to 
hot  and  cold — epitomised  by  complementary  tints 
exactly  balancing  every  element  in  each  other's 
composition ;  but  this  balance  must  also  be  strictly 
adhered  to  in  the  general  composition  of  the  pic- 
ture. In  canvases  where  the  colour  is  prepon- 
derantly hot  we  experience  a  dissatisfaction  on 
account  of  their  "scorched"  appearance;  and  a 
dissatisfied  feeling  obtains  when  the  colour  runs 
into  the  blues,  greens  and  purples.  Subjective  col- 
our satisfaction,  which  is  the  equal  distribution 
of  cold  and  hot  as  is  represented  in  nature  by  the 
contrast  between  direct  light  and  shadow  cast,  is 
obtainable  only  by  a  painter  who  possesses  an 
extreme  sensitivity  in  regard  to  chromatic  values. 
When  colours  are  applied  to  equally  balanced 
squares  on  a  neutral  grey  background  the  result 
is  the  same  as  with  black  and  white,  provided  the 
two  colours  are  exact  complementaries.  The 
squares,  however,  must  undergo  a  process  of  dis- 
proportionment  according,  and  in  ratio,  to  the 
background's  being  drawn  toward  the  hot  or  cold 
end  of  the  spectrum.  Hence:  Colour  balance 
means  that  the  sum  total  of  all  the  colours  in  a 
picture  must  equal  the  chromatic  temperature 
which  lies  half  way  between  the  spectral  extremes ; 


PROBLEMS  OF  ESTHETICS        117 

or,  in  other  words,  the  colours  must  constitute  the 
equivalent  of  two  perfect  complementaries. 

91. 

Rhythm. — Rhythm  is  symmetry  in  movement. 
The  perception  of  rhythm  is  due  to  the  funda- 
mental recognition  of  equal  and  consecutive 
events  or  reactions:  that  is,  to  the  infinite  itera- 
tion of  balance  which  is  at  once  started  when 
motion  is  conferred  on  symmetry.  Thus  when  a 
static,  symmetrical  figure  or  design  is  overbal- 
anced on  one  side,  it  calls  for  a  counterbalanc- 
ing movement  in  the  opposite  direction  equal  to 
the  first  movement:  and  this  second  position  at 
once  demands  another  opposite  movement  like  the 
first,  and  so  on  indefinitely.  Here  we  arrive  at 
the  psychological  basis  for  the  principle  of  pe- 
riodicity. (The  same  basis  may  be  advanced  for 
the  perception-reflex  and  its  continuous  reactions 
in  our  nervous  systems  until  interrupted  or  in- 
terfered with  by  other  more  intense  stimuli.) 
These  succeeding  and  equally  spaced  beats  are 
not  equal  in  intensity  when  perceived,  even  though 
they  may  be  scientifically  the  same.  The  mind 
registers,  through  the  ear,  cycles  of  sound,  for 
the  realisation  of  rhythm  is  a  realisation  of  mov- 
ing symmetry,  and  unless  we  kept  track,  as  it 
were,  of  the  alternating  complementaries,  we  could 


^ 


118  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

not  determine  the  swaying  balance.  Listen  to  a^ 
clock  ticking:  count  the  ticks  one-two,  one-two, 
one-two;  then  count  them  one-two-three,  one-two- 
three,  one-two-three;  then  count  them  one-two- 
three-four,  one-two-three-four,  one-two-three-four. 
In  every  instance  the  accent  will  fall  on  the  one. 
Beyond  four  the  human  mind  cannot  rhythmically 
go  because  of  the  necessity  for  complete  cycles; 
and  the  duration  of  single  rhythmic  conceptions, 
while  varying  in  individuals,  is  limited  to  two  sec- 
onds in  even  extreme  cases.  (In  music  where  we 
have  six-eight  time,  for  instance,  the  psychologi- 
cal effect  is  three-four  time  doubled.  Hexa- 
meter verse  is  unmusical;  and  septameter  divides 
itself  to  us  into  tetrameter  and  trimeter.  In  pen- 
tameter there  is  always  a  rest,  or  silent  cadence, 
at  the  end  of  the  lines  which  breaks  the  effect  into 
two  trimeters.)  A  single  cycle  of  beats  is  not 
complete,  nor  does  it  give  us  an  emotion  of  com- 
pletion: we  feel  the  need  of  other  cycles  to  bal- 
ance it.  It  does  not  represent  an  entire  move- 
ment, and  must  be  counteracted  by  another  cycle. 
Though  composed  of  beat-integers  which  balance 
one  another,  it  becomes  an  entity  and,  in  turn, 
needs  another  entity  to  balance  it.  When  this 
larger  balance  is  obtained  we  have  another  entity 
which  demands  a  further  and  still  larger  balance. 
This  process  of  compounded  rhythm  continues 
until  the  rhythms  are  so  far  separated  that  we 


PROBLEMS  OF  ESTHETICS        119 

cannot  feel  them  but  must  connect  them  by  an  in- 
tellectual process.  The  four  movements  of  the 
symphony,  while  recognisable  as  a  cycle  of  move- 
ment, are  too  widely  separated  to  be  grasped  emo- 
tionally. But  in  the  philosophical  determination 
of  art  we  must  not  limit  our  conception  of  rhythm 
to  what  may  be  immediately  experienced.  The 
hours,  days,  seasons  and  years  are  rhythmic  cy- 
cles. All  life  is  an  expression  of  these  recurring 
cycles — that  is,  of  rhythmic  movement  in  space. 
And  art's  interpretative  value  lies  in  the  fact  that 
it  can  condense  the  macrocosmic  cycles  into  a  mi- 
crocosm which  will  symbolise  those  great  alternat- 
ing rhythms  of  life,  and  make  them  susceptible  of 
immediate  perception,  whereas,  naturally,  they  are 
only  recognisable. 

The  Demand  for  Common  Rhythm. — ^The  v^ 
demand  for  symmetry  is  an  expression  of  the 
primitive  need  of  static  balance.  It  is  the  first 
consciousness  of  existing.  A  child  learns  first  to 
balance  itself  upright;  hence  its  initial  sensation 
is  symmetry.  Later,  movement  is  introduced  into 
this  symmetry,  and  locomotion  is  acquired.  The 
assthetic  consciousness  develops  similarly,  for  we 
must  not  lose  sight  of  the  fact  that  art  is  the 
expression  and  projection  of  life.  Herein  lies 
its  great  philosophic  value.     It  is  the  reduction 


120  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

of  all  life  to  a  perfectly  composed  miniature 
world.  Therefore  the  reaction  to  symmetry  is 
anthropomorphically  prior  to  the  reaction  of 
movement.  Later  this  symmetry  is  set  into  simple 
action:  there  is  regular  alternation  of  balance — a 
swaying  to  one  side  immediately  counterbalanced 
by  a  swaying  to  the  other  side.  The  primitive  art, 
which  followed  the  making  of  symmetrical  designs, 
balanced  these  designs  after  the  manner  of  the 
human  body  walking.  Music  was  entirely  a  mat- 
ter of  rhythm,  accentuated  by  the  tapping  of 
drums.  Still  later  the  rhythms  became  compli- 
cated according  to  the  evolution  of  bodily  move- 
ments— running,  hopping,  skipping,  dancing, 
and  so  forth.  Stimulations  of  impacts  and  stress 
resulted  in  emphasis  on  one  foot  or  the  other. 
Because  of  this  rhythmic  basis  in  all  conscious- 
ness of  movement,  there  exists  necessarily  a  sim- 
ple rhythm  in  every  work  of  art  which  has  passed 
beyond  mere  symmetry. 

93. 

^Esthetic  Rhythm. — There  is,  of  course,  in 
all  great  art,  an  underlying  and  all-embracing 
rhythm  which  determines  the  microcosmic  life 
of  the  work.  This  profounder  rhythm  (which,  be- 
cause of  the  paucity  of  art  nomenclature,  we 
must  call  aesthetic  rhythm)   is  the  result   of  the 


PROBLEMS  OF  ESTHETICS        121 

perfect  organisation  of  all  the  qualities  of  art — 
linear  direction,  balance  and  volume.  It  has 
nothing  to  do  with  rhythm  in  the  ordinary  sense, 
with  tempo,  with  alternate  swaying  of  curved 
lines,  with  action,  or  with  metrics.  It  is  a  com- 
plete cycle  of  poised  movement  presented  as  a 
simultaneous  vision;  and  the  change  of  the  small- 
est part  would  completely  alter  every  constituent. 
Thus  a  person  may  walk  or  dance  rhythmically 
(in  the  narrower  sense);  but  one  of  Michel- 
angelo's slaves,  which  actually  is  static,  possesses 
the  profounder  aesthetic  rhythm,  for  within  it  is 
embodied  every  possible  phase  of  ordinary  rhythm 
of  the  human  body,  perfectly  related  and  or- 
ganised. Likewise  a  popular  piece  of  dance  mu- 
sic may  possess  rhythm ;  whereas  Brahms's  Fourth 
Symphony  embodies  in  its  four  movements  a  com- 
plete world  of  rhythmic  poise  which  gives  itself 
to  the  auditor  only  when  the  cycle  is  complete 
— at  the  instant  the  final  chord  is  struck.  Again, 
we  find  in  Swinburne's  Dolores  a  melodious 
rhythm  which  sweeps  us  along  on  its  surface ;  but 
in  Balzac's  Illusions  Ferdues  we  possess  a  great 
example  of  aesthetic  rhythm  which  is  developed 
by  the  perfect  organisation  of  documentary  form. 
Ordinary  rhythm  extends  itself  wholly  into  time, 
and  is  the  repetition  of  alternating  lines,  points 
or  accents.  ^Esthetic  rhythm  is  poise  in  three 
dimensions,  wherein  all  the  extremes  of  movement 


122  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

are  related  to  a  centre  of  gravity,  giving  us  the 
sense  of  complete  satisfaction. 

94. 

/  The  Basis  of  Rhythm. — Simple  rhythm,  al- 

though apparently  an  alternating  movement  be- 
tween two  points,  is  in  reality  either  an  actual 
or  implied  relation  between  four  points,  lines  or 
forms.  For,  when  symmetry  is  set  in  motion, 
there  is  at  once  a  displacement  of  balance,  and 
the  mind  immediately  supplies  that  displacement 
with  an  imaginary  placement.  It  is  this  alterna- 
tion between  a  form  and  a  void  and  again  between 
a  void  and  a  form  that  constitutes  the  concep- 
tion of  four  movements — that  is,  two  alternating 
sets  of  two  movements  each.  Nearly  all  rhythm, 
however,  is  an  actual  alternation  between  two 
sets  of  similar  forms;  and  this  gives  us  the  in- 
evitable basis  of  four,  or  multiples  of  four.  No 
true  rhythm  can  exist  otherwise.  Thus  the  body 
while  walking  constitutes  the  source  of  our  per- 
ception of  rhythm,  just  as  it  constitutes  the  source 
of  all  aesthetic  reaction.  The  arms  sway  back 
and  forth  alternately;  the  legs  likewise  move  al- 
ternately back  and  forth;  and  the  alternating 
movement  of  the  arms  at  the  same  time  alternates 
with  the  alternating  movements  of  the  legs.  We 
will  find  this  same  law  of  four  in  all  works  of  art 


PROBLEMS  OF  ESTHETICS        123 

which  give  us  a  complete  and  satisfactory  sense 
of  rhythm.  "Common"  time  in  music  is  four-four 
time  (four  beats  to  the  measure).  A  simple 
musical  melody  contains  sixteen  measures,  or  four 
alternating  phrases  of  four  bars  each.  Nearly 
all  musical  compositions  are  founded  on  the  mul- 
tiple of  four;  and  the  few  attempts  at  five-four 
time,  or  at  adding  an  uneven  number  of  bars,  have 
resulted  in  a  feeling  of  dissatisfaction  or  incom- 
pleteness. The  basal  compositional  structure  of 
all  great  paintings  or  sculptures  will  be  found  to 
abide  by  this  simple  rhythmic  law.  The  most 
satisfying  type  of  poetry  is  written  in  tetrameter ; 
and  it  has  four  lines  with  alternating  rhymes. 
When  we  seek  for  the  larger  rhythmic  movements 
— the  aesthetic  rhythm — of  art,  we  find  the  same 
law  holding  good.  In  the  sonata,  or  symphony-;- 
the  most  perfect  type  of  musical  composition — 
the  four  movements  are  more  obvious  than  in  the 
other  arts.  But  the  movements  are  there,  none 
the  less.  It  is  inevitable  that  this  should  be  so, 
for  these  are  the  movements  of  consciousness; 
and  all  great  art  must  be  related  to  the  human 
body  in  movement. 

95. 

Wai.tz,  or  Three-Four,  Time. — The  reason 
that  waltz,  or  three-four,  time  is  commonly  re- 
garded as  the  most  sensuous  tempo,  that  is,  the 


124  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

tempo  to  which  we  respond  with  the  most  com- 
plete physical  reaction,  is  because  there  is  in  such 
tempo  the  alternation  of  emphasis  as  well  as  of 
mere  movement.  The  human  mind,  during  the 
process  of  auditory  perception,  makes  rhythmic 
divisions  between  sound-forms.  This  is  because 
one  note,  when  heard,  creates  a  need  for  another 
note;  and  these  two  notes  constitute  a  sound- 
form  or  an  extension  or  direction  of  sound-form. 
If  the  form  is  complete,  the  mind  begins  with 
the  third  note  (provided  there  has  been  an  in- 
terval) to  construct  another  form  or  a  further 
form  extension.  Thus  we  instinctively  emphasise 
the  first  note  in  a  sound-form  in  order  to  dif- 
ferentiate the  succeeding  forms.  That  is  why 
whenever  we  hear  a  regular  tapping  of  any  kind 
we  always  unconsciously  hear  every  other  tap  as 
if  it  were  a  little  louder  than  the  tap  which  fol- 
lows it.  We  will  inevitably  lay  stress  on  the  first 
beat  of  a  sound-form.  In  music  this  stress  or 
emphasis  is  indicated  by  bar-division;  and  we 
count  one-two,  one-two-three,  or  one-two-three- 
four,  according  to  the  tempo.  But  always  the 
emphasis  will  be  placed  on  the  one,  or  the  first 
beat  in  the  measure.  Our  bodies  naturally  move 
in  accordance  with  the  tempo :  it  is  the  movement 
of  the  body  which  in  the  first  place  necessitated 
the  emphasis.  Therefore,  in  two-four  or  four- 
four  time  the  emphasis  of  movement  will  always 


PROBLEMS  OF  ESTHETICS        125 

fall  on  one  side  of  the  body,  since  our  rhythmic 
movement  is  always  from  side  to  side  even  when 
walking  or  running.  But  in  three-four  time  the 
emphasis  alternates  from  one  side  of  the  body  to 
the  other,  because  the  number  of  notes  in  the 
sound  group  is  an  odd  number.  For  instance,  if 
we  should  walk  in  step  to  three-four  time  the 
stress  would  fall  first  on  the  left  and  then  on 
the  right,  or  vice  versa.  Therefore,  in  moving 
rhythmically  to  three-four  time  there  is  a  sway- 
ing movement  to  which  both  sides  of  the  body  re- 
act alternately  and  equally,  thus  giving  us  a  per- 
meating sense  of  complete  physical  reaction. 

96. 

Documentary  Solidity  in  Literature. — ^AU 
great  works  of  art  must  embody  a  definite  logic 
(dependent  on  the  spectator's  or  auditor's  mem- 
ory and  sense  of  actuality)  which  will  cause  an 
action,  a  tone,  a  colour,  a  line,  or  a  note  to  be 
experienced  as  inevitable  and  right.  This  just 
placement  of  every  aesthetic  element  makes  for; 
the  truth  (in  the  sense  of  inner  consi-s-t^ncy )■  - olf' 
an  art  work.  The  mere  statement  in  litfera-ture, 
for  instance,  that  a  character  performed  a  cer- 
tain act  does  not  create  for  the  reado?  the  ex- 
perience of  the  character's  action;  nbr  does  iti 
in  the  aesthetic  meaning  of  "experience,'*  .^ive  the 


126  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

reader  a  complete  and  all-enveloping  vision  of 
the  character  performing  that  act.  Indeed,  the 
reader  only  conditionally  accepts  the  writer's 
statement  (just  as  a  spectator  accepts  the  drop- 
curtain  of  a  theatre  as  a  landscape  or  an  in- 
terior), and  awaits  the  proof  or  logic  which  will 
force  him  to  feel  the  truth  of  the  statement.  Now, 
in  order  for  such  a  statement  to  be  accepted  as 
true,  the  author  is  necessitated  to  give  the  rea- 
son for  the  particular  act,  to  describe  the  cir- 
cumstances surrounding  it,  to  explain  the  char- 
acter's temperament,  nature,  mode  of  life,  his 
antecedents,  and  his  ability  to  counteract  en- 
vironment and  heredity.  Only  then  will  the  stated 
act  stand  as  a  solid  and  consistent  fact — the  pos- 
sible, even  inevitable,  result  of  instincts,  circum- 
stances and  surroundings.  In  other  words,  such 
a  statement  cannot  appear  as  a  logical  visualisa- 
tion which  will  cause  the  reader  to  feel  as  the 
character  is  supposed  to  feel  and  to  accept  the 
action  as  a  link  in  a  temperamental  process,  un- 
less th.e  -writer  has  constructed  his  story  by  that 
jmaginative  sensitivity  which  results  in  fundamen- 
.'  tal  yerisimilitude.  And  this  verisimilitude  is  de- 
pendent not  only  on  the  writer's  ability  to  seize 
the  essentials  of  character  and  environment,  but 
on  his  insight  into  psychological  causes  which 
T^stdt  n<iturally  in  the  character's  action.  By 
setting.  4own  this  knowledge  in  the  manner  that 


PROBLEMS  OF  AESTHETICS        127 

nature  creates,  the  writer  makes  the  action  ap- 
pear as  a  part  of  an  organised  delineation  which 
the  reader  feels  cannot  be  otherwise.  This  is  the 
primary  literary  and  artistic  solidity  which  pro- 
duces in  the  reader,  after  the  narrative  is  fin- 
ished, the  feeling  that  he  himself  has  experienced 
the  recorded  events,  has  thought  the  thoughts  of 
the  characters,  and  has  personally  passed  through 
an  odyssey  of  action  and  contemplation.  Herein 
lies  the  tactile  possibilities  of  a  work  of  litera- 
ture. Such  a  work  radically  differs  from  those 
stories  which  the  reader  remembers  only  as  hav- 
ing been  pleasantly  related  as  a  series  of  external 
events.  The  same  effect  of  logical  justness  and 
truth  is  brought  about,  in  a  similar  manner,  by 
the  painter  and  the  musician.  The  painter,  con- 
fronted by  the  need  of  filling  spaces,  must  choose 
the  right  line,  colour  or  tone.  The  line  must 
lean  in  a  direction,  the  colour  must  be  of  a  shade, 
and  the  tone  must  be  of  a  purity,  which  will  be 
inevitable  in  the  ensemble.  They  must  be,  not 
only  the  result  of  environmental  colours,  lines 
and  tones,  but  the  determining  basis  of  other 
colours,  lines  and  tones  which  are  to  follow,  and 
which,  together  with  all  that  has  been  set  down 
before,  will  be  viewed  simultaneously.  The  mu- 
sical composer  adheres  to  the  same  constructional 
process.  Were  he  to  alter  the  logical  character 
or  direction  of  phrases,  they  would  cease  to  be 


128  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

felt  as  true,  because  they  would  no  longer  be  the 
inevitable  result  of  what  had  preceded  them: 
they  would  become  detached  and  chaotic.  On 
this  sensitive  solidity  of  artistic,  and  at  bottom 
physical,  logic,  is  based  all  the  laws  of  harmony. 
No  amount  of  detail  in  literature  can  bring  about 
this  emotional,  inner  solidity.  It  goes  deeper 
than  the  representation  of  solidity,  for  it  is  cre- 
ated, not  by  the  correct  and  meticulous  setting 
down  of  data  or  actual  facts,  but  by  the  natural 
inevitability  of  cause  and  effect,  expressed  by 
salient  points  of  its   evolutionary  process. 

97. 

Organised  Musicai.  Solidity. — Organised  mu- 
sical solidity  is  the  perfect  conjunction  of  sound 
and  rhythm. 


Organised  Solidity  in  Painting. — Organised 
solidity  in  painting  is  the  unique  vision  of  colour 
and  form. 

99. 

Organisation  or  Literary  Solidity. — In  ad- 
dition to  the  documentary  solidity  of  literature 
there  must  also  be  a  solidity  of  style,  or  method. 
Thus  is  a  literary  work  made  plastic.   The  rhythm 


PROBLEMS  OF  ESTHETICS        129 

and  word-sounds  must  be  perfectly  harmonised. 
When  an  author  creates  for  us  a  character  whose 
life  we  feel  and  live  in  the  reading,  he  has  shown 
himself  to  be  possessed  of  great  and  conscious 
imagination.  He  has,  however,  given  us  only  an 
attenuated  vision.  But  when  the  expression  of 
this  character  results  not  alone  from  the  docu- 
ment filling  its  role  of  narration,  but  also  from 
the  inevitable  choice  of  words,  the  structure  of 
the  sentences  and  paragraphs, — then  the  author 
has  given  us  supreme  art.  He  has  adapted  his 
form  to  his  expression  as  well  as  his  expression 
to  his  form ;  and  we  have  a  unique  vision  of  presen- 
tational method  and  subject-matter.  There  is  a 
perfect  concord  between  all  the  separate  ele- 
ments. 


100. 

Auxiliary  Lines. — One  colour,  or  one  musical 
note,  merely  implies  form,  as  does  one  side  of  a 
rectangular  block,  for  instance.  We  assume  some 
kind  of  a  form,  since  in  the  single  colour  or  note 
we  have  one  surface  or  limitation  of  a  relative 
form.  But  with  two  or  more  colours  or  notes  we 
possess  an  actual  extension  of  form,  for  our  senses 
connect  them,  attributing  a  dimension  to  the 
space  or  neant  between  them :  we  assume  a  line — 
that   is,   a   direction — leaxiing   from   one    to  the 


130  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

other.  The  intervening  space  (provided  the  col- 
ours or  tones  are  not  actually  in  conjunction) 
takes  on  the  character  of  form:  it  ceases  to  be 
nothing,  and  becomes  something.  Thus  the  white 
space  between  colours  is  imaginatively  filled  in 
with  all  the  degrees  of  tone  or  shading  which 
separate  them;  and  the  silence,  or  rest,  or  in- 
terval between  notes  is  filled  in  imaginatively  with 
that  portion  of  the  chromatic  scale  which  di- 
vides them.  In  literature,  the  same  principle  ob- 
tains. Two  events  in  the  life  of  a  character  are 
recorded;  and  we  at  once  assume  or  supply  the 
intervening  events.  In  the  construction  of  aes- 
thetic form  the  artist  either  leaves  these  blanks 
as  they  are  or  fills  them  in,  according  to  the  need 
of  straight  or  curved  directions  in  the  scheme  of 
his  organisation.  When  the  connections  are 
omitted  we  have  the  straight  direction,  for  the 
eye  or  mind  or  ear  jumps  from  one  colour,  note  or 
episode  to  another,  taking  the  shortest  possible 
route.  But  when  the  intervening  space  is  filled 
in  (as  by  the  slur  in  music,  the  gradation  of  the 
colours  in  painting,  and  the  minute  record  of  de- 
tails in  literature),  we  have  a  curved  line,  since 
all  the  intervening  notes,  colours  and  documen- 
tary minutiae  have  an  individual  character  which 
leads  the  eye  or  ear  or  mind  into  its  own  sep- 
arate extensions  in  space  and  time. 


PROBLEMS  OF  ESTHETICS        131 

101. 

Space  Interval  in  Music  and  Line  in  Paint- 
ing.— ^The  space  intervals  between  notes  corre- 
spond to  line,  or  delimitation  of  volumes,  in  paint- 
ing. Notes  are,  as  it  were,  strung  on  time  spaces ; 
and  it  is  the  parallel  repetitions  of  these  spaces 
which  endow  a  musical  composition  with  its  pure- 
ly physical  homogeneity.  Forms  on  lines  pro- 
duce the  same  effect  in  painting.  Thus,  if  twelve 
chromatic  notes  are  struck  simultaneously,  there 
is  no  sensation  of  time  endurance ;  but  if  they 
are  struck  successively  with  small  intervals,  im- 
mediately there  is  evoked  a  feeling  of  line  in  the 
listener.  Separate  colours  placed  in  juxtaposi- 
tion over  a  whole  canvas  do  not  give  the  sensa- 
tion of  form,  but  of  volume.  Introduce  line  into 
the  mass — that  is,  delimit  these  colours — and  they 
will  at  once  become  form.  Hence :  it  is  line  which 
brings  form  out  of  volume,  and  space  intervals 
which  bring  melody  (or  musical  form)  out  of 
notes.  Furthermore,  just  as  the  perception  of 
music  is  dependent  on  time  extension  (or  space 
interval),  so  is  all  painting,  the  old  as  well  as 
the  new,  dependent  on  line  for  its  effect.  Line 
welds  every  part  of  a  picture  into  a  unified  whole; 
and  spaces  similarly  weld  all  musical  volumes. 
This  welding  process  constitutes  the  superficial 
rhythm  which  is  the  body  of  the  expression.     It 


132  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

does    not,    however,    constitute    the    generating 
rhythm:  this  last  results  from  deeper  causes. 

102. 

Line  Subsidiary  to  Volume. — A  line,  per  se, 
cannot  give  us  the  feeling  that  it  extends  from 
our  eyes  into  space  or  toward  us,  although  it  may 
suggest  what  we  already  know  concerning  a  de- 
picted form.  A  line  is  only  a  surface  method  of 
hinting  at  volume.  Its  ability  to  become  three- 
dimensional  depends  upon  the  colours  in  painting 
and  the  notes  in  music.  It  must  therefore  al- 
ways be  deputy  to  volume,  and  its  solidity  de- 
pendent upon  the  medium  employed.  In  our  con- 
templating a  drawn  line  it  may,  at  first,  ap- 
pear to  recede  at  one  point  and  to  advance  at 
another.  But  if  we  reverse  the  paper  or  look  a 
while  longer  it  will  seem  to  bulge  where  before 
it  appeared  concave,  and  vice  'versa.  This  trans- 
formation, however,  will  not  take  place  when  col- 
ours are  applied  to  the  line  in  their  volumnear 
precision,  nor  even  when  individual  colours  are 
placed  on  a  neutral-tinted  background. 


103. 


Linear   Drawing    Only    Significant    When 
Depicting    Recognisable    Objects. — To    state 


PROBLEMS  OF  MSTHETICS        133 

that  form  can  be  intensely  felt  only  when  ex- 
pressed by  colour,  and  then  to  speak  of  the  power- 
ful emotion  of  absolute  form  to  be  had  before  a 
Michelangelo  drawing,  would  seem  to  constitute 
a  contradiction.  But  here  is  the  explanation: 
Line,  as  an  abstract  medium,  can  be  significant 
only  when  it  expresses  objects  which  we  are  at 
no  pains  to  recognise,  for  only  then  is  it  capa- 
ble of  giving  us  the  emotion  of  three-dimensional 
solidity.  This  solidity,  however,  is  not  the  re- 
sult of  a  line's  ability  to  move  us  subjectively. 
Indeed,  a  line's  greatest  power  lies  in  its  being 
able  to  indicate  the  surface  rhythm  which  cor- 
responds to  tempo  in  music.  A  great  drawing 
of  the  human  body  is  only  suggestive  of  form 
and  expressive  of  rhythm.  It  is  our  associative 
facvlty  which  tells  us  that  the  form  is  three-di- 
mensional; and  it  is  our  susceptibility  to  linear 
surface  rhythm,  combining  with  this  associative 
faculty,  which  produces  in  us  an  emotion  of  beau- 
tiful and  full  form.  The  fact  that  these  two  ele- 
ments of  perception  are  not  fully  amalgamated  is 
brought  out  when  we  look  at  a  drawing  and  a 
painting  of  the  same  picture — a  Cezanne,  for  in- 
stance. The  drawing,  when  viewed  side  by  side 
with  the  painting,  is  felt  to  be  unsatisfactory; 
but  when  it  is  viewed  alone,  this  feeling  vanishes. 
The  painting  contains  all  the  linear  and  tonal 
beauty  of  the  drawing,  besides  giving  to  them,  by 


134  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

means  of  colour,  a  new  and  fuller  life  of  abstract 
and  volumnear  form. 

104. 

Subjective  Solidity  of  Sculpture. — ^Al- 
though sculpture  is  presented  to  us  through  the 
medium  of  an  impenetrable  substance  on  which 
we  may  bruise  our  bodies,  only  in  the  case  of 
great  sculpture  is  it  impossible  to  dematerialise 
it  subjectively  with  our  emotions.  In  the  work 
of  Rodin,  for  instance,  who  is  generally  conceded 
to  be  a  marvellous  modeller  and  a  master  of  his 
material,  only  occasionally  do  we  come  upon  de- 
tails which  create  in  us  a  satisfaction  of  solidity. 
This  is  because  Rodin  has  never  achieved  a  plas- 
tic ensemble.  On  the  other  hand,  some  of  the 
half-finished,  barely  limned  statues  of  Michelan- 
gelo are  perfections  of  solidity  in  the  subjective 
sense.  Often  Rodin  is  more  lifelike  than  Michel- 
angelo, more  "right"  in  drawing,  more  truly  ob- 
jective, for  frequently  Michelangelo  is  deformed, 
foreshortened  and  distorted  out  of  academic  sem- 
blance to  the  human  body.  Yet  before  him  we 
feel  an  aesthetic  satisfaction.  And  the  reason  lies 
fundamentally  in  the  balance — in  the  alternating 
rhythm  between  the  parts  and  the  whole,  the  se- 
quential projection  of  even  the  minutest  details 
into  the  character  of  the  whole. 


PROBLEMS  OF  ESTHETICS        135 

105. 

Literature  and  Sculpture. — ^While  painting 
and  music  each  have  an  abstract  element  of  sub- 
jective form  (the  first,  colour;  the  second,  sound)^ 
literature  and  sculpture  deal  alone  with  the  me- 
dia in  which  they  are  expressed,  and  are  inspired 
by  their  replicas  in  objective  life.  Literature  is 
a  matter  of  formalising  precise  ideas,  with  all  the 
ramifications  of  thought  which  this  process  im- 
plies. It  is  document,  inspired  by  document  and 
given  homogeneous  form.  It  has,  to  be  sure,  the 
subjective  element  of  visualisable  form;  but  this 
element  is  not  itself  the  result  of  an  objective 
stimulus,  as  is  colour  in  painting,  and  sound  in 
music.  Sculpture  deals  with  actual  form,  and  is 
inspired  by  actual  form  as  well.  It  also  has  a 
subjective  element  of  solidity  dependent  on  its 
order.  But  this  solidity,  like  the  form  of  litera- 
ture, is  not  the  result  of  an  abstract  element  (such 
as  colour  or  sound)  whose  formal  effect  is  sub- 
jective. Literature  and  sculpture  are  the  direct 
arts,  and  deal  with  specific  facts,  precise  objec- 
tive ideas  and  precise  objective  forms.  Were  the 
field  of  sculptural  shapes  as  broad  as  the  field  of 
ideas,  sculpture  could  keep  pace  with  literature. 
But  its  field  is  definitely  limited,  and  when,  in 
the  art  of  ^lichelangelo,  it  had  exhausted  its  plas- 
tic possibilities,  it  was  merged  into  painting  and 


136  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

given  another  element  in  the  generating  line.  To- 
day this  element  has  also  been  exhausted,  and, 
as  a  consequence,  sculpture  is  dead.  The  sculptor 
of  to-day,  like  the  modem  architect,  can  only 
restate  or  vary  Michelangelo's  art.  But  litera- 
ture, having  a  wider  scope  and  having  learned 
the  lessons  of  music  and  painting,  has  taken  a 
nobler  lease  of  life.  It  has  acquired  elements 
which  make  it  practically  a  new  art. 

106. 

Fixed  Forms  in  the  Different  Arts. — Set 
forms  in  art  are  the  evolutionary  choices  which 
both  inspire  to  creation  and  restrain  within  fixed 
limits  that  same  creation.  Thus  there  exists  many 
fixed  forms  in  all  the  arts,  such  as  the  sonnet  and 
the  villanelle  in  poetry,  the  four-part  sonata  and 
the  fugue  in  music,  and  the  human  body  in  paint- 
ing and  sculpture.  To-day  the  artist  is  rebelling 
against  these  fixed  moulds  because  they  have 
been  filled  perfectly  and  no  longer  offer  a  new 
problem  or  a  new  emotion  to  the  creator.  All 
such  forms,  no  matter  how  perfectly  conceived, 
are  in  the  manner  of  exercises  for  the  artist. 
They  exist  until  the  creative  will  develops  them 
or  passes  beyond  them  to  new  ones.  When  the 
art  instinct  expands,  the  medium  and  the  ex- 
pression expand  with  it.     Not  until  the  old  forms 


PROBLEMS  OF  ESTHETICS        137 

become  too  small  or  restricted  for  the  artistic 
contents  do  the  boundaries  recede.  The  differ- 
ent forms  of  poetry  underwent  this  metamorpho- 
sis ;  and  new  forms  and  metres  were  constantly 
brought  into  being.  Beethoven  liberated  the  min- 
uet as  a  part  of  the  symphony,  calling  the  new 
and  freer  movement  the  scherzo.  Courbet  and 
Manet  made  subject-matter  in  painting  arbitrary, 
thereby  permitting  a  free  selection  of  theme.  To- 
day formal  boundaries  are  receding  in  all  the  arts. 
The  heretofore  loose  ends  of  knowledge  are  being 
gathered  together,  and  the  unrest  at  restricting 
barriers  has  brought  about  an  expansion  of 
these  barriers.  Only  those  whose  limited  vision 
cannot  reach  even  the  frontiers  of  other  days  are 
crying  anarchy. 

107. 

Two  Kinds  of  Dramatic  Form. — The  tech- 
nique and  the  form  of  the  drama  are  two  sep- 
arate and  distinct  qualities,  although  of  late 
technique  has  come  to  be  considered  dramatic 
form.  It  is,  however,  no  more  than  the  super- 
ficial garb  in  which  the  true  form  is  clothed,  and 
is  without  value  save  to  the  producer  and  the 
theatrical  mechanician.  This  technical  "form" 
is  a  surface  convention  dependent  on  the  needs  of 
the  existing  stage.  It  has  passed  through  a  series 
of  evolution,  until  now  it  bears  small  resemblance 


138  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

to  its  original  character.  Technique  concerns 
itself  largely  with  certain  arbitrary  "units"  of 
time  and  place,  dramatic  sequences,  divisions  of 
actions  (called  "acts")  or  divisions  of  locale 
(called  "scenes"),  the  possibilities  of  stage  con- 
struction, the  rise  and  fall  of  dialogue  interest, 
suspense,  the  logic  of  exits  and  entrances,  the 
so-called  psychology  of  effects,  the  "planting"  of  ' 
properties,  the  duration  of  time,  and  all  such 
minor  and  artistically  nugatory  considerations. 
There  has  grown  up  a  school  of  modern  techni- 
cians whose  influence  has  been  to  turn  dramatic 
judgment  into  a  contemplation  of  these  external 
factors.  The  Greek  drama,  we  are  told,  lacks 
form ;  and  even  Shakespeare  is  set  down  as  a  man 
woefully  deficient  in  dramatic  knowledge:  his 
form  has  become  obsolete!  Even  in  our  own  day 
we  have  seen  many  vital  changes  come  over  dra- 
matic "form."  Soliloquies  have  been  done  away 
with.  The  number  of  acts  has  been  reduced.  The 
climax,  or  denouement^  has  been  moved  forward  to 
the  end  of  the  last  act,  so  that  the  ascension  of 
interest  might  be  preserved.  By  such  subterfuges,  ' 
tricks  and  arbitrary  "laws  of  dramaturgy"  do  our  ' 
modern  critics  presume  to  judge  the  drama!  But 
since  these  laws  are  constantly  changing  to  meet 
the  needs  of  a  vulgar  public  or  the  demands  of 
imaginative  stage  carpenters,  a  drama  which  was 
excellent  as  "form"  yesterday  is  set  aside  to-day 


PROBLEMS  OF  ESTHETICS        139 

as  worthless,  and  the  plays  we  praise  to-day  will 
be  met  with  scorn  and  contempt  by  the  critics  of 
to-morrow.      But   what   our   present-day   techni- 
cians overlook  is  that  what  they  call  "form"  is 
only    a    transient    aspect    of    the    drama.      True 
dramatic  form  is  a  far  deeper  quality — a  definite 
and  eternal  flux  and  reflux  of  document,  wholly 
unrelated  to  the  superficial  "form"  on  which  so 
much  emphasis  is  now  laid.     And  it  is  this  inner 
activity  of  subject-matter  which  determines   for 
all  time  the  artistic  worth  of  a  play.     In  fact, 
the  laws  of  modem  construction  not  seldom  work 
directly   against  the  inner   form,   distorting   and 
disproportioning  it  to  coincide  with  some  super- 
ficial rule  of  presentation.      The  important  and 
basic  content  of  a  drama  is  thus  left  to  get  along 
as  best  it  can,  while  the  superficial  moulding  into 
shape  goes  on  relentlessly  in  accordance  with  the 
needs  of  theatrical  trickery.    A  truly  great  drama 
is  possessed  of  this  inner  form,  and  seldom  abides 
by    the   "laws"    of   the   modern    technicians,    for 
gesthetic  form  cannot  be  created  if  it  is  restricted 
by  petty  rules.     On  the  other  hand,  we  have  many 
plays   which   are  technically  nearly  perfect,   but 
not   one   of   them  is   great.      Herein  we  have   an 
explanation   for   the   greatness    of   Shakespeare's 
Coriolanus,    of    Goethe's    Faust,    of    Sophocles's 
(Edipus  Rex,  of  Moliere's  Tartuffe,  of  Racine's 
Phedre,    and    of    Corneille's    Polyeucte.      These 


140  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

dramas  are,  and  always  will  be,  mammoth  ex- 
amples of  dramatic  form  in  the  true  and  endur- 
ing sense  of  the  word,  because  their  form  is  aes- 
thetic and  has  to  do  with  the  internal  substance. 
They  are  authentic  pieces  of  irrevocable  dramatic 
art.  They  will  be  great  plays  when  Shaw,  Pinero, 
Bernstein  and  the  other  little  masters  of  modem 
technical  efficiency  have  been  forgotten.  The  man 
who  writes  for  the  stage  of  to-day  is  doomed. 
In  the  past  when  there  were  few  rules  to  hinder 
the  playwright  it  was  different;  but  a  modern 
artist  cannot  serve  both  his  art  and  the  require- 
ments of  dramatic  law-makers.  The  theatre,  as  it 
is  constituted  to-day,  is  an  enemy  of  true  art 
form,  for  its  demands  nulhfy  all  aesthetic  crea- 
tion. That  is  why  there  is  no  dramatic  art  in 
the  present  age.  The  one  contemporary  drama- 
tist who  approaches  aesthetic  greatness  is  Haupt- 
mann;  and  our  critics  are  constantly  complain- 
ing of  his  "formlessness." 

108. 

The  Future  Prose. — The  art  of  literature, 
like  all  the  other  arts,  is  heading  straight  for  a 
purification  of  its  medium,  which  will  result  in 
an  intensification  of  its  emotional  power.  Here- 
tofore the  wrting  of  prose  has  seemed  so  natural 
an   occupation   that  thousands   who   are  without 


PROBLEMS  OF  ESTHETICS        141 

any  genuine  aesthetic  equipment  have  adopted  it 
as  a  life  work.     These  persons,  many  with  large 
literary  reputations,  would,  if  put  to  the  test,  be 
incapable  of  defining  the  difference  between  litera- 
ture  as   an   art,    and   those   writings   wherein    a 
smooth   and  fluent   stylist   has   merely   produced 
pure  and  moving  document.     Yet  there  now  ex- 
ists  a  vast   difference  between  the  two;   and  in 
twenty-five   years    there   will   be    a    still   greater 
chasm  between  them.     The  poet  can  suggest  cer- 
tain vague  emotions  solely  by  means  of  particu- 
lar kinds  of  metre.     But  this  method  is  rudimen- 
tary.    Single  words,  by  their  tone  qualities  and 
onomatopoeic  suggestions,  possess  the  same  power 
of  precise  expression.     Also,  the  aesthetic  signifi- 
cance   of   ensemble   forms   has   never   been    fully 
realised.     These  qualities  will  be  skilfully  and  sen- 
sitively organised  in  the  writings  of  the  future; 
and   the   literary   architecture   of  the  novel   and 
the  short  story  will  be  as  difficult  to  construct 
and   as    subjectively   solid   when   finished   as   the 
dome  of  St.  Peter's.     Only  then,  when  all  the  po- 
tential qualities  which  are  at  the  disposal  of  the 
creators  of  great  literature  shall  have  been  recog- 
nised and  mastered,  will  the  writer's  medium  be 
suflSciently  plastic  and  complete  to  permit  of  fuU 
freedom  of  expression.     We  will  then  be  able  to 
distinguish  the  true  literary  artist  from  the  mere- 
ly skilful  documentarlan. 


142  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

109. 

Documentary  Coherence  in  Literature. — • 
All  aesthetic  creation  is  progression,  for  without 
progression  there  can  be  no  coherence;  and  form 
confers  coherence  on  progression.  Successive 
parts  of  an  art  work  are  held  together  by  a  unity 
of  intent  or  purpose;  and  this  unity  of  intent — 
whether  document,  sound,  or  colour — can  be  pre- 
served only  by  the  medium  of  assthetic  form.  The 
attempt  of  certain  ultra-modern  anarchs  to  di- 
vorce document  from  literature  can  result  only  in 
disintegration,  for  it  is  document  which  supplies 
the  coherent  structure  to  literature.  Without  it 
the  mind  is  incapable  of  synthesising  the  word 
symbols  or  of  appreciating  even  their  immediate 
interrelations. 

110. 

Poetry. — That  which  distinguishes  poetry 
from  prose  is  its  metrical  articulation,  its 
rhythmical  progression  and  its  cadential  relation- 
ships. Poetry,  therefore,  is,  next  to  music,  the 
most  physical  of  the  arts.  Its  primary  appeal  is 
its  bodily  rhythm — its  dance  element ;  and  because 
of  its  primitive  reiteration  of  tempo,  it  is  unfitted 
for  any  expression  save  the  simplest  and  most 
spontaneous  kind.  The  most  effective  poetry  is 
that   which   adheres   to   the   presentation   of  im- 


PROBLEMS  OF  ESTHETICS        143 

agerj:  in  this  it  is  closely  allied  sesthetically  to 
the  art  of  dancing.  Like  dancing,  it  is  intellec- 
tual only  in  limited  degree.  The  evolution  of  po- 
etry is  in  the  development  of  rhythm  and  the  in- 
tensification of  the  image.  That  is  why,  when 
it  reached  a  state  of  impressive  purity  in  Swin- 
burne, there  was  a  psychological  reaction — a  dis- 
integration of  poetry  into  all  manner  of  theoreti- 
cal schools.  New  experimental  eras  always  fol- 
low the  culmination  of  cycles  of  endeavour,  after 
a  period  of  stagnancy  has  been  passed.  It  was 
the  same  in  painting.  Rubens  closed  a  cycle ;  then 
came  an  unproductive  interregnum,  and  Dela- 
croix, Daumier  and  Courbet  ushered  in  a  new  ex- 
perimental era.  But  whereas  the  means  of  paint- 
ing had  not  been  exhausted  in  Rubens,  the  means 
of  poetry  had  been  fully  probed  by  Swinburne; 
and  this  fact  accounts  for  the  poverty  and  in- 
eptitude of  the  so-called  "new"  poetry.  What 
has  actually  happened  is  this:  the  "new"  poetry 
has  become  prose,  and  its  experimentations  in 
means  will  aid  the  development  of  prose  and  not 
poetry.  Although  the  ultra-modern  lyricists  in- 
sist that  there  is  no  definite  line  of  demarcation 
between  prose  and  poetry,  it  is  still  necessary  to 
define  our  terms  if  we  would  avoid  infinite  con- 
fusion and  endless  arguments.  The  fact  is  that 
the  best  of  the  modern  free-versifiers  (whose  aim 
has   been   to   supplant   metre   with    cadence)    are 


144*  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

writing  no  better  prose  than  can  be  found  in  a 
score  of  eminent  stylists  who  have  never  consid- 
ered their  work  as  poetry  at  all.  All  good  prose 
has  depended  upon  what  vers  libre  writers  term 
"cadence,"  and  has  contained  a  perfect  balance 
of  flow  and  rhythm  in  the  larger  sense.  Further- 
more, the  syllables  have  fallen  so  as  to  perpetu- 
ate the  movement;  and  each  individual  episode, 
or  division,  has  been  conceived  as  a  complete 
cycle  of  balanced  movement.  And  all  the  great- 
est prose  has  fitted  the  action  and  cadence  to 
the  sense  in  the  strictest  onomatopoeic  sense,  and 
has  chosen,  not  the  precise  word  for  the  image, 
but  the  word  which  would  give  the  effect  desired. 
The  Imagists,  perhaps  the  most  influential  and 
concise  of  the  newer  poetic  schools,  are  emphasis- 
ing the  laws  and  needs  of  prose;  and  their  ad- 
vent is  a  salutary  one.  But  since  there  is  in 
their  theory  no  point  which  is  not  embodied  in 
all  sensitive  prose,  it  is  confusing  to  call  them 
poets  unless  we  are  to  call  all  great  prose  writers 
poets.  It  is  more  logical  and  more  in  keeping 
with  the  development  of  aesthetic  procedure  to 
distinguish  between  the  two  arts,  for  their  appeal 
is  certainly  diff'erent.  The  emotions  produced  by 
a  metrical  work  and  a  vers  libre  work  of  equal 
merit  are  fundamentally  diff'erent.  They  belong 
to  two  diff*erentiated  arts,  and  their  appeal  is  dis- 
similar.    A  diff'erent  set  of  physical  laws  governs 


PROBLEMS  OF  ESTHETICS        145 

each.  There  is  good  and  bad  poetry,  and  there 
is  good  and  bad  prose;  but  to  call  good  prose 
poetry,  and  to  call  bad  poetry  prose  can  result 
only  in  nomenclatural  chaos.  The  functions  of 
poetry  are  not  those  of  prose.  Prolonged  metri- 
cal accentuation  becomes,  in  a  very  short  time, 
unpleasant ;  and  a  narrative  poem,  such  as  Mase- 
field's  The  Widow  in  the  Bye  Street,  is  no  more 
moving  or  beautiful  than  any  one  of  its  many 
individual  images.  Poetry  is  the  metrical  expres- 
sion of  an  image :  prose  is  the  cadential,  onomato- 
vpoeic  and  balanced  expression  of  document.  The 
two  have  many  qualities  in  common ;  but  the  vi- 
tality-^-even  the  raison  d'etre — of  poetry  (since  it 
is  an  adolescent  and  feminine  manifestation)  de- 
pends on  the  science  of  metrics,  or  simple  rhythm. 
It  has  an  art  parallel  in  the  purely  rhythmic 
music  of  the  ancient  Greeks.  The  present  revolt 
against  fixed  metres  marks  a  certain  coming-of- 
age' among  our  poets.  They  have  passed  beyond 
the  primitive  and  physical  appeals  of  poetry,  and 
feel  the  need  of  something  deeper  and  more  in- 
tellectually  moving. 

111. 

Vers  Libre. — Vers  Ubre,  like  all  progressive 
innovations  in  art,  is,  superficially,  a  reaction 
against  hackneyed  forms,  and,  actually,  the  re- 


146  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

suit  of  an  impulse  toward  profounder  effects  and 
richer  achievements.  Like  all  new  movements,  it 
appears  to  many  to  be  mere  disorganised  anarchy 
of  the  kind  which  lifts  all  restraint  from  the  fixed 
forms  of  expression:  hence  its  myriad  imitative 
disciples.  Vers  libre  appeals  to  many  others  be- 
cause it  seems  to  possess  certain  mysterious  ac- 
cents and  uncommon  rhythms,  and  therefore  to 
present  new  metrical  problems.  To  these  latter, 
in  contradistinction  to  the  first  group,  it  appears 
to  be  an  even  more  complicated  expression  than 
the  older  poetry.  Vers  libre,  however,  is  a  very 
simple  and  obvious  step  in  literary  development, 
though  one  fraught  with  vast  and  far-reaching 
possibilities.  At  present  it  is,  for  the  most  part, 
merely  a  sign  of  instinctive  revolution.  But  the 
revolution  is  dictated  by  profound,  if  unsensed, 
needs.  The  regular  tempo-rhythm  of  measure  has 
been  done  away  with;  and,  in  addition,  rhyme 
has  been  cast  out.  As  yet  there  has  been  no 
attempt  to  replace  these  qualities  with  anything 
save  images  and  a  certain  tense  realism.  But, 
since  all  great  poetry  depends  on  the  image,  the 
abrogation  of  these  other  two  qualities  leaves  us 
only  the  stripped  skeleton  of  document.  And, 
furthermore,  since  all  good  prose  possesses  the 
underlying  rhythm  which  is  claimed  by  the  makers 
of  vers  libre,  there  is  nothing  at  present  in  the 
"new    poetry"     to    distinguish    it,    sesthetically, 


PROBLEMS  OF  ESTHETICS        14^7 

from  prose  imagery.  A  similar  revolution  took 
place  in  music  some  years  ago.  By  the  abnormal 
accentuation  of  notes  many  composers  attempted 
to  do  away  with  bar  division.  Here  was  the  an- 
archy of  musical  rhythm.  But  these  same  men 
later  came  to  realise  that  rhythm  was  as  neces- 
sary in  art  as  it  was  in  life ;  and  so  they  came 
back  to  it.  In  the  matter  of  rhyme  the  newer 
poets  have  a  different  problem.  Rhyme  is  merely 
octave.  The  rhyming  of  two  words  at  the  end 
of  separate  lines  gives  us  a  satisfaction  analogous 
to  striking  the  tonic  note  and  reverting  to  its  oc- 
tave at  regular  intervals.  The  idea  of  rhyme  as 
the  sole  harmony  of  musical  composition  has  not 
existed  since  the  Greeks  before  Pythagoras.  Yet 
it  has  clung  to  poetry  until  the  present  day. 
When  the  harmonies  of  the  third  and  fifth  were 
substituted  for  the  octave  there  was  an  excuse 
to  drop  the  old  form.  But  these  younger  poets 
give  us  nothing  in  the  place  of  rhyme,  or  octave. 
Needless  to  say,  they  will  inevitably  be  forced  to 
come  back  to  simple  rhythm;  and  perhaps  when 
that  necessity  is  fully  realised  by  them,  there  will 
have  been  discovered  a  scale  of  vowel  sounds  which 
will  serve  as  a  much-needed  restraining  hand  on 
anarchistic  exuberance.  To-day  vers  lihre  ex- 
presses the  tentative  discontent  with  the  older 
and  simpler  forms,  and  indicates  the  existence  of 
a  subconscious  knowledge  that  a  richer  art  is  to 


148  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

spring  from  the  deeper  comprehension  of  rhyth- 
mic and  harmonious  sounds  and  forms. 


112. 

Poetry  and  Thought. — Poetry's  mission  is  to 
register  imagery.  The  attempt  of  certain  earnest 
persons  to  combine  thought  and  prosody  is  like 
singing  the  multipHcation  table. 

113. 

The  Human  Voice. — The  use  of  the  human 
voice  in  music  is  a  rehc  of  the  early  days  when 
music  was  the  handmaiden  of  poetry,  when  the 
document  was  chanted  for  purposes  of  enriching 
the  mere  effect  of  words.  There  were  few  mu- 
sical instruments,  and  the  purity  of  music  as 
an  art  had  not  been  sensed.  Melody  was  only 
an  auxiliary  or  accompaniment  of  poetry,  just 
as  colour  was  at  one  time  only  an  auxiliary  of 
drawing — a  means  of  intensification,  without  an 
inherent  function  of  its  own.  As  the  possi- 
bilities of  musical  sounds  became  more  and  more 
to  be  realised;  as  the  science  of  harmony  de- 
veloped and  came  to  be  felt  more  intimately;  and 
as  the  invention  of  musical  instruments  progressed 
and  broadened — music  gradually  drew  away  from 
document;  musical  form  took  on  an  importance 


PROBLEMS  OF  MSTHETICS        149 

of  its  own;  and  the  art  of  music  evolved  as  a 
separate  and  distinct  aesthetic  practice.  But 
there  was  always  a  side  of  music  which  clung 
to  literature,  and  that  side  now  manifests  itself 
in  the  opera.  On  the  other  hand,  pure,  or  abso- 
lute, music  (which  is  the  highest  form  of  that 
art,  since  it  deals  exclusively  with  aesthetic  form 
unrelated  to  document  or  dramatic  illustration) 
has  reached  its  highest  development  in  the  mod- 
em orchestra  and  the  symphony.  Just  as  the 
greatest  painting  has  become  a  pure  expression 
of  organised  form  and  has  discarded  illustration 
and  document,  so  has  the  greatest  music  become 
a  pure  organisation  of  sound-forms  and  has  elimi- 
nated the  human  voice  which,  in  that  art,  repre- 
sents the  illustrative  and  documentary  content. 
The  human  voice  still  persists  in  music  for  the 
benefit  of  those  unable  to  react  aesthetically  to 
pure  form,  just  as  illustration  still  plays  a  large 
part  in  much  of  to-day's  painting,  and  as  the 
mere  story  dominates  much  of  our  literature. 
When  the  time  comes  when  we  can  appreciate 
and  react  to  the  highest  art,  the  human  voice 
will  be  discarded,  just  as  will  illustration  in 
painting  and  the  mere  objective  plot  in  literature. 
For  the  human  voice  cannot  be  used  successfully 
as  a  mere  instrument  of  music.  It  is  imperfect, 
and  its  quality,  as  pure  sound,  has  already  been 
surpassed  by  many  instruments.     A  'cello  is  su- 


150  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

perior  to  a  tenor  or  baritone;  a  clarionette  is 
superior  to  a  contralto ;  and  a  flute  is  superior  to 
a  soprano.  In  fact,  when  we  wish  to  praise  high- 
ly the  timbre  of  certain  singers'  voices,  we  com- 
pare them  to  these  instruments ;  and  their  ap- 
proximation to  these  instruments  is  the  measure 
of  their  beauty.  There  have  already  been  at- 
tempts to  "orchestrate"  the  human  voice,  such 
as  in  Mahler's  Eighth  Symphony,  Beethoven's 
Ninth  Symphony,  Brahms's  Deutsches  Requiem, 
and  the  operas  of  Wagner  and  especially  of  Rich- 
ard Strauss.  But  these  compromises  with  the 
prejudices  of  people  who  are  impressed  by  the 
"human  element"  in  music  have  been  far  from 
satisfying  to  the  man  capable  of  reacting  to  pure 
sound-form.  Those  who  still  find  the  greatest 
pleasure  in  the  human  voice  and  its  documentary 
content  are  the  assthetic  defectives:  they  corre- 
spond to  that  class  which  sees  only  exalted  illus- 
tration in  painting  and  which  regards  a  work  of 
literary  art  solely  as  a  well-told  story.  The  per- 
son whose  reaction  to  art  is  wholly  aesthetic  re- 
gards the  human  voice  as  an  inferior  and  inade- 
quate musical  instrument,  for  art,  in  its  tensest 
expression,  is  to  him  a  perfect  amalgamation  of 
all  the  parts  into  a  perfect  ensemble;  and  any 
intrusion  of  document  (lyrical,  dramatic  or  an- 
ecdotal) is  irrelevant  to  its  main  purpose — that 
of  unalloyed  emotional  ecstasy.    Among  the  great- 


PROBLEMS  OF  ESTHETICS        151 

est  composers  the  human  voice  is  becoming  less 
and  less  significant;  and  in  the  purest  musical 
compositions  (such,  for  instance,  as  Bach's  con- 
certos and  fugues,  Mozart's  Jupiter  Symphony, 
Beethoven's  Fifth  Symphony^  and  Brahms's 
Fourth  Symphony)  it  has  no  place.  More  and 
more  as  we  come  to  understand  the  true  aesthetic 
import  of  music,  less  and  less  will  we  tolerate  the 
human  voice  as  a  musical  factor.  To-day  it  is  en- 
joyed only  by  those  who  seek  temporary  recrea- 
tion or  who  are  incapable  of  the  highest  emotions 
of  art.  No  one  who  truly  comprehends  the  C-Minor 
Symphony  can  find  aesthetic  enjoyment  in  opera. 
For  the  man  who  has  stood  on  the  mountain-top, 
the  valleys  below  will  ever  seem  inferior  and  un- 
satisfactory. 

114. 

Literary  Characters. — There  are  three 
classes  of  literary  characters,  although  the  gen- 
eral reader  makes  no  distinction  between  them. 
To  him,  they  are  all  "invented,"  or  "delineated," 
or  "created."  In  fact,  these  three  verbs  are 
often  arbitrary  and  indiscriminately  confused  and 
interchanged.  But  between  them  exists  a  mighty 
gulf:  they  represent  entirely  different  calibres 
of  literary  talent  as  well  as  wholly  differentiated 
methods.  The  characters  of  Dickens  are  "in- 
vented" ;  that  is,  they  are  plausible  caricatures. 


152  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

They  have  no  exact  prototypes  in  ordinary  experi- 
ence, although  they  are  fraught  with  verisimili- 
tude. They  stand  out  because  of  their  consistent- 
ly portrayed  idiosyncrasies ;  because  of  their  un- 
likeness  to  common,  everyday  types.  They  are 
sui  generis.  "He  looks  as  though  he  had  stepped 
out  of  a  Dickens  novel": — in  other  words,  he  is 
an  unusual  person — a  freak.  This  is  the  lowest 
form  of  literary  characterisation,  for  such  a  char- 
acter may  be  "invented"  without  documentary 
solidity;  and  without  that  solidity  there  can  be 
no  aesthetic  form.  Another  hterary  type  is  the 
character  that  is  "delineated" — the  type,  for  in- 
stance, found  in  the  works  of  Anthony  TroUope. 
Trollope  excelled  in  delineation;  that  is,  he  drew 
characters  true  to  life,  having  before  him  always 
a  definite  person  or  type  that  he  reproduced  pho- 
tographically. Consequently,  his  characters  are 
lifelike:  they  reflect  the  solidity  of  life,  as  a 
mirror  reflects  it.  The  third  and  highest  type  of 
literary  character  is  that  which  is  "created." 
Balzac  was  the  great  master  of  this  method.  His 
characters  were  neither  invented  nor  dehneated. 
He  built  them  up,  as  nature  builds  them,  first, 
by  establishing  all  the  causes,  hereditary  and 
environmental,  which  went  into  their  making,  and 
then  by  setting  down  the  events  through  which 
they  developed.  Out  of  the  conjunction  of  these 
subjective  and  objective  forces  grew  the  charac- 


PROBLEMS  OF  ESTHETICS        153 

ters,  moulded  and  fashioned  by  the  life  without 
and  the  blood  within.  As  a  result,  they  possess 
not  a  reflected  solidity,  but  an  inherent  documen- 
tary solidity  of  their  own.  Only  when  such  a 
profound  process  is  adhered  to  by  an  author  is  a 
character  "created."  For  the  achievement  of 
such  a  character  the  highest  species  of  genius  is 
necessary. 

115. 

Style  in  Literature. — The  highest  type  of 
literary  style  implies  the  perfect  ease  with  which 
a  writer  uses  words.  His  method  of  articulation 
should  vary  with  every  thought  or  fact  expressed, 
in  accordance  with  the  needs  of  documentary 
form.  Perfect  mobility  and  plasticity — the  abil- 
ity to  change  the  manner  of  presentation  at  will 
— should  be  the  desire  of  every  writer.  The 
painter  changes  his  brushing  to  accord  with  the 
size  of  his  canvas  or  the  detail  he  is  transcribing. 
(Compare  Rubens's  Landscape  with  Chateau  de 
Stem  and  his  A  jaw  and  Cassandra.)  The  mu- 
sical composer  alters  his  technique  to  fit  the  type 
of  his  composition.  (Compare  the  second  move- 
ment of  Beethoven's  Eighth  Symphony  with  the 
fourth  movement  of  his  Fifth  Symphony.)  But 
the  writer  strives  to  develop  a  certain  technical 
manner,  and  he  uses  it,  without  variation,  through- 
out his  work.      This   technical  manner  is    called 


154  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

his  "style,"  whereas  it  is  only  a  rigid  and  dog- 
matic repudiation  of  style.  What  is  commonly 
termed  "style"  in  literature  is  little  more  than 
an  idiosyncrasy  of  expression — a  mannerism. 
True  style — one  which  attests  to  mastery — is  an 
ability  to  change  one's  manner  at  random  so  as 
to  harmonise  the  expression  with  the  thing  ex- 
pressed. A  great  stylist  can  write  suavely,  sim- 
ply and  delicately,  as  well  as  robustly,  complexly 
and  brutally.  Shakespeare  is  a  stylist.  Pater  is 
the  negation   of  style. 

116. 

Opera. — That  music  of  an  opera,  whose  merit 
makes  one  forget  the  opera,  is  good  music.  There 
is  no  such  thing  as  good  opera  music.  As  soon 
as  the  composer  begins  to  illustrate  an  action 
or  an  event  he  is  treading  on  very  superficial 
ground.  He  can  create  great  music  even  while 
imitating  words,  actions,  and  the  like ;  but  the 
moment  his  music  penetrates  the  listener's  con- 
sciousness as  imitation,  it  ceases  to  be  anything 
but  opera  music,  and  hence  bad  music.  At  that 
moment  the  documentary  has  dominated  the  aes- 
thetic— which  implies  that  the  aesthetic  was  too 
weak  and  ineffectual  to  hold  us.  One  cannot  react 
aesthetically  to  art  and  enjoy  nature  simultane- 
ously.   The  artist  who,  in  drawing  an  arm,  makes 


PROBLEMS  OF  ESTHETICS        155 

of  his  drawing  a  magnificent  bit  of  form,  irre^ 
spective  of  its  being  an  arm,  is  the  great  crea- 
tive artist,  for  he  has  taken  one  thing,  added  to 
it  his  imagination,  and  created  a  second.  But 
that  artist  who  merely  draws  an  arm  accurately 
to  look  like  a  beautiful  arm  is  an  imitator  and  not 
a  creator.  In  viewing  both  these  drawings  together 
we  may  admire  the  arm  of  the  second  and  the  form 
of  the  first;  but  it  is  mentally  impossible  to  re- 
gard the  first  work  both  as  a  functioning  arm 
and  as  a  great  piece  of  created  form  at  the  same 
time.  So  with  music.  It  is  either  a  pure  aes- 
thetic achievement;  or  it  is  a  story  or  a  mood 
or  an  event  temporarily  disguised  in  the  integu- 
ments of  music.  Great  music  lives  within  and 
for  itself — an  organisation  of  abstract  forms. 

117. 

Drawing. — Drawing  is,  by  its  inherent  nature, 
the  art  of  depicting  natural  objects  by  means  of 
a  characteristic  which  does  not  exist  in  those 
objects  (line),  and  by  a  substitution  of  black  and 
white  for  their  natural  colours.  The  formal  emo- 
tion we  receive  before  a  drawing  is  only  indirectly 
sesthetic  because  preponderantly  associative,  for 
only  through  association  can  we  grasp  the  for- 
mal significance.  This  associative  necessity  is 
due   to   the  inability   of  lines   to   recede   from  or 


156  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

advance  toward  the  spectator's  eye,  and  to  the 
continual  transposition  of  the  black  and  grey 
patches  between  the  hole  and  the  bump.  Since 
the  invention  of  painting  drawing  has  been  main- 
ly a  preparatory  step  in  the  construction  of  a 
picture — an  outline  of  muscles  or  shadow  or 
light  dehmitations,  which  will  familiarise  the 
painter  with  his  subject  and  thus  facilitate  him 
in  the  rearranging  and  ordering  of  his  details  and 
silhouettes.  The  only  purely  aesthetic  element  in 
drawing  is  the  flat  balance  and  poise  of  black  and 
white  masses ;  and  these  bear  the  same  relation  to 
the  multifarious  elements  of  a  colour  picture  that 
the  spacing  of  tempo  by  the  drums  bears  to  a 
full  orchestra.  Drawing  is  capable  of  producing 
in  us  a  sense  of  balance  and  rhythm,  both  super- 
ficial and  profound,  but  not  a  sense  of  subjective 
form.  In  fine,  drawing  can  evoke  no  greater  emo- 
tion than  can   a  photograph  of  a  good  statue. 

118. 

Sculpture. — Since  the  death  of  Michelangelo 
there  has  been  no  progress  made  in  sculpture,  not- 
withstanding the  fact  that  every  year  new  men 
attain  to  prominence  in  this  field.  The  explana- 
tion for  this  lies,  first,  in  the  emotional  paucity 
of  the  medium  of  sculpture,  and,  secondly,  in  the 
fact  that  the  world's   greatest  artist,  Michelan- 


PROBLEMS  OF  ESTHETICS        157 

gelo,  by  devoting  his  thought  alone  to  perfecting 
this  art,  brought  about  a  consummation  more 
quickly  than  if  its  destiny  had  rested  upon  years 
of  evolutionary  development  in  the  hands  of  minor 
men.  Even  with  the  Greeks  sculpture  had  be- 
come highly  organised  and  synthetic,  and  with 
Michelangelo  the  complicating  and  rhj^thmicising 
process  had  comparatively  little  way  to  go.  The 
inherent  limitations  and  insurmountable  obstacles 
of  sculpture  render  it  far  inferior  to  painting 
as  an  art.  The  goal  of  sculpture  is  to  order  the 
human  body  into  a  perfect  aesthetic  unit,  and  the 
human  body  in  movement  is  just  such  a  unit. 
Furthermore,  its  medium  is  fixed  and  insusceptible 
of  intensification  or  alteration:  in  itself  it  is  dead 
material.  Whether  a  piece  of  plastic  art  be  made 
of  plaster,  marble,  granite,  wax  or  clay,  no  func- 
tional problem  attaches  to  it.  One  cannot  plas- 
ticise  the  separate  parts  and  modify  their  emo- 
tional effect,  or  in  any  way  accentuate  one  unit 
of  the  medium  above  another,  as  is  possible  with 
both  sound  and  colour.  In  this  respect  sculpture 
presents  no  greater  problem  than  does  a  mono- 
chrome painting  or  a  melody  played  upon  a  single 
reed  or  brass  instrument.  No  research  or  experi- 
mentation has  to  be  made  in  the  matter  of  me- 
dium. On  the  sesthetic  side  of  sculpture  there  are 
also  definite  limitations.  For  instance,  it  is  not 
possible  to  create  a  great  ensemble  of,  say,  fifty 


158  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

life-size  figures  as  in  a  Rubens  painting,  because 
a  canvas  presents  itself  from  one  angle,  whereas 
a  piece  of  sculpture  is  visible  from  a  hundred  dif- 
ferent angles  and,  as  a  consequence,  would  havQ 
to  be  a  perfect  order  from  every  vantage-point. 
Such  a  gigantic  undertaking  would  require  an  en- 
tire museum  for  its  milieu;  and,  in  the  end,  it 
would  be  of  no  more  aesthetic  importance  than 
the  painting;  indeed,  it  would  be  of  less  im- 
portance, because  of  its  lack  of  colour  organisa- 
tion. Even  should  the  sculptor  paint  his  statu- 
ary, it  would  appear  as  he  intended  it  only  at 
that  one  hour  of  the  day  when  his  colours  were 
applied,  for  the  shifting  of  chromatic  values  un- 
der different  lights  would  distort  the  stationary 
and  absolute  forms.  The  reason  that  sculpture 
is  almost  entirely  in  the  hands  of  unoriginal  and 
mediocre  men  is  because  painting  has  usurped  its 
field  and  has  carried  it  into  realms  far  beyond  the 
sculptor's  dreams.  In  painting  is  the  apotheosis 
of  sculpture.  Even  the  inspirational  element  of 
sculpture  is  dead.  Since  Michelangelo  men  who 
still  work  in  this  medium  are  necessitated,  in  or- 
der to  create,  to  dig  among  the  ruins  of  antiquity 
for  half-forgotten  relics  of  primitive  styles.  Of 
late  years  sculptors  have  sought  inspiration  in 
South  Sea  Island,  Phoenician,  Aztec,  Indian  and 
Chinese  figures,  in  the  carvings  on  North  Ameri- 
can totem  poles,  and  in  primitive  Negro  sculpture. 


PROBLEMS  OF  ESTHETICS        159 

But  painters  have  gone  ever  ahead,  sounding  new 
depths,  and  pushing  their  art  to  profounder  con- 
clusions. When  we  consider  a  Rodin  (whose  best 
works  are  plagiarisms  from  the  Greeks  and  Ital- 
ians of  the  Renaissance),  Rude  (whose  talents 
moulded  archaic  Greek  simplifications  into  mili- 
tary illustrations),  Carpeaux  (whose  undisci- 
plined inspiration  was  now  Gothic,  now  post- 
Renaissance),  Meunier  (an  exponent  of  the  in- 
tegral naturalism  of  Donatello),  Maillol  (who 
goes  to  the  archaic  Greeks  and  Egyptians),  and 
Archipenko  (who  uses  the  surfaces  of  Michelan- 
gelo with  the  spirit  of  Cubism  and  "Fauvism"), 
we  realise  at  once  how  sterile  are  sculpture's  po- 
tentialities. A  few  men,  like  the  late  Gaudier- 
Brzeska,  have  attempted  to  make  sculpture  ab- 
stract; but  in  abstract  art  there  must  be  a  deli- 
cate and  moving  interdependence  of  parts  which 
is  only  possible  in  a  shifting,  relative  and  non- 
absolute  medium  such  as  colour  and  sound. 


119. 

Why  Art  Whose  Effect  Is  Abstract  Must 
Be  Coloured. — There  are  numerous  proofs  at- 
testing to  the  inability  of  sculptural  and  black- 
and-white  graphic  art  to  produce  an  abstract 
emotional  effect.  (In  black-and-white  art  are  in- 
cluded  those   paintings    in   which   the   attenuated 


160  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

colours  have  no  formal  or  emotional  significance 
greater  than  that  of  a  decoration  composed  of 
tonal  values.)     The  reasons  for  this  failure  lie  in 
a  tone's  inability  to  approximate  to  stable  quali- 
tative form  and  its  resultant  immobility  and  ab- 
soluteness when  related  to  other  tones,  and  also 
in  the  inability  of  mere  lines  to  produce  a  sensa- 
tion of  recession  or  advancement.     Abstract  art 
— that  is,  art  wliich,  by  emphasising  pure  oppo- 
sitions of  form,  nulHfies  its  objectivity — must,  in 
order   to   be   subtly   moving,  hang   on   a   slender 
and  dehcate  thread  of  cohesion;  and,  in  its  very 
nature,    it    cannot   express    subjective    states    by 
means  of  obvious  and  unforgettable  solid  matter, 
as  does   sculpture.     There  must  always   be  that 
human  element  of  logical  fitness  between  medium 
and  expression.     Colour  is  a  highly  subtle,  plastic 
and  relatively  fluctuating  medium,  moulding  and 
moulded  by  its  environmental  colours,   changing 
and  directing  line,  capable  of  portraying  relative 
objectivity    and   of   producing    complete    subjec- 
tivity.    Tone   alone  possesses  none   of  these   at- 
tributes.    It  has  no  defined  character  of  quality, 
and,  being  negative  in  its   functioning,  is  easily 
frozen  into  static  shapes  and  unalterable  exten- 
sions.     This   freezing  process   makes   it   appear, 
when  drawn  up  into  an  ordered  drawing,  like  a 
copy  or  a  photograph  of  a  prettily,  even  artis- 
tically, arranged  pile  of  lumber  before  which  the 


PROBLEMS  OF  ESTHETICS        161 

spectator  experiences  a  sense  of  unavoidable  im- 
penetrability. Colour,  like  thought  and  sound, 
has  its  natural  and  inevitable  sequences ;  and 
certain  combinations  of  these  sequences  are  able 
to  set  in  motion  that  associative  process  which 
makes  the  complete  realisation  of  an  art  work 
a  natural,  human  and  emotional  pleasure.  Aside 
from  the  subjective  limitations  of  tone  in  a  pic- 
ture aiming  at  abstract  effect,  there  is  also  a  lack 
of  purely  emotional  ecstasy  which  the  presence  of 
colour  produces.  Colour,  in  fact,  constitutes  a 
full  third  of  art's  attraction  and  power,  irrespec- 
tive of  subject-matter. 

120. 

The  Meaning  of  Simplicity  in  Art. — To- 
day, because  of  the  progress  art  has  made  in  ad- 
vance of  both  critics  and  public,  we  hear  and 
read  much  concerning  the  simplicity  of  great  art. 
We  are  told  that  the  great  minds  are  the  sim- 
ple minds,  that  art  should  come  within  the  com- 
prehension of  all.  And  yet  these  very  disciples 
of  simplicity  indulge  in  eulogies  of  Michelangelo 
and  Gothic  architecture !  The  works  of  the  great 
Florentine  and  of  the  builders  of  the  Rheims  and 
Rouen  cathedrals  are  anything  but  simple  mani- 
festations. Indeed,  they  are  complexity  itself. 
How  is  it,  then,  that  these  lovers  of  the  simple 


162  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

pretend  to  penetrate  and  enjoy  such  art  works? 
The  answer  is  that  they  have  confused  cause  and 
effect.  No  great  art  has  been  born  into  the 
world  since  before  the  Renaissance  which  is  sim- 
ple art.  Even  the  really  simple  art  of  the  an- 
cient world  is  far  more  complex  than  the  layman 
is  capable  of  understanding  at  a  glance.  There 
is  in  all  art,  however,  a  certain  simplicity  of 
vision.  A  great  work  of  art  presents  itself  as 
a  whole.  It  appears  to  the  spectator  as  a  unique 
ensemble,  as  a  unit.  Thus,  in  the  same  way  that 
the  human  body  or  any  natural  object  may  be 
simple,  so  is  there  simplicity  in  art.  It  is  a  seem- 
ing, not  an  actual,  simplicity.  The  reason  a  per- 
son speaks  of  the  simplicity  in  a  Michelangelo 
statue  or  in  a  Gothic  structure  is  because  the 
aesthetic  expression  presents  itself  en  masse  as  a 
familiar  object.  The  subtle  placements  and  dis- 
placements of  the  statue  resolve  themselves  into 
the  familiar  objects  of  a  human  body.  The  in- 
finite and  fantastic  ornaments  of  the  Gothic  con- 
ception resolve  themselves  into  the  familiar  object 
of  a  building.  But  there  is  no  such  thing  as  great 
simple  art.  There  exists  only  an  art  whose  order 
is  simple  in  its  ultimate  effect.  If  the  preachers 
of  simplicity  could  see  into  the  fabrication  of 
that  art,  could  understand  its  infinite  ramifica- 
tions, they  would  realise  that  their  creed  is  a 
false  one.      The   fact  that  modern  art  does   not 


PROBLEMS  OF  MSTHETICS        163 

always  appear  unified  is  not  due  to  its  greater 
complexity,  but  to  the  modern  artist's  inability 
completely  to  visualise  his  work.  The  art  of 
the  peasants  and  the  Negro  sculptors  is  the  only 
truly  simple  art.  It  is  the  expression  of  a  sim- 
ple-minded people  and  cannot,  aside  from  its 
novelty,  interest  for  long  the  lovers  of  profound 
beauty. 

121. 

The  Dance. — Dancing,  undoubtedly  the  oldest 
and  most  primitive  method  of  human  emotional 
expression,  was  the  forerunner  of  all  the  rhythmic 
arts.  That  the  dance  itself  is  not  a  great  art 
and  is,  in  its  nature,  incapable  of  becoming  great, 
is  not  due  to  any  decrease  of  its  power  for  physi- 
cal exuberance,  but  rather  to  its  direct  humanity 
— its  dependence  on  wholly  emotional  states.  The 
dominance  of  its  inherent  physical  element  throws 
it  aesthetically  out  of  balance,  for  art  is  the  poised 
expression  of  willing,  knowing  and  feeling.  Down 
the  ages  the  dance  has  come  to  us  in  hundreds  of 
different  forms,  yet  it  is  easily  divisible  into  three 
classes:  (1)  the  dance  in  which  nature's  elements 
and  human  and  animal  occupations  are  imitated ; 
{%)  the  pantomimic  and  mimetic  dances,  which 
include  the  choral  dancing  of  the  Greeks  and  the 
individual  and  more  musically  interpretative 
dances  of  our  own  time;  and  (3)  the  spectacular 


164.  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

ballets  and  acrobatic  dances,  which  include  the 
ceremonial,  religious  and  arbitrarily  arranged 
dances  of  primitive  tribes  and  of  peoples  in  a 
rudimentary  state  of  civilisation.  In  many  cases 
these  classes  overlap  each  other,  combining  two 
sets  of  characteristics ;  and  a  certain  amount  of 
spontaneity  is  often  introduced  into  even  the 
most  formal  dance  arrangements ;  but  it  is  never- 
theless possible  to  classify  them  in  this  manner,  as 
each  dance  represents  a  definite  intention  or  an 
impulse  toward  a  type.  (Such  dances,  so-called, 
as  those  of  the  Fellah  boys,  Almehs  and  Nautch- 
ees  are  not  included,  being  mere  feats  of  en- 
durance and  inspirations  to  sensuality.)  The 
first  class  embodies  such  as  the  Wave  Meke,  Snake, 
Astronomic,  Pyrrhic,  Gymnopgedic,  Hayato-Mai 
and  Xiphic  dances.  The  second  class  is  made  up 
of  the  legendary  and  dramatic  dances  of  the 
Greeks,  the  Morris  Dance,  the  No,  the  Bellicrepa 
Saltatio,  the  Sun  Dance,  and  those  purely  emo- 
tional "interpretations"  of  music,  sometimes  called 
classic  because  the  costumes  and  attitudes  are 
based  on  Greek  and  Roman  art — the  dances  of 
Isadora  Duncan  and  Maud  Allan,  for  instance. 
The  third  class  comprises  hundreds  of  rhythmic 
movements  executed  by  large  groups — the  dances 
which,  among  uncivilised  peoples,  precede  or  ac- 
company certain  ceremonials:  the  Animal  dances 
of  the  Black  Feet,  the  Maori  Funeral  dance,  the 


PROBLEMS  OF  MSTHETICS        165 

Paean,  Palilia,  Bergerette,  Kollo,  Jota,  Wake, 
Danse  Macabre,  Makovitzka,  Czardas,  Tarantella, 
Heh-Miao,  Kagura,  Bon-Odori,  the  modern  French 
Ballet,  and  the  gymnastics  of  the  Russian  Ballet. 
In  all  these  modes  of  dancing  the  intention  is 
dramatic,  histrionic,  rhythmic,  or  utilitarian. 
Some  are  used  to  create  bellicose  courage;  others 
to  produce  a  contemplative  or  ecstatic  mood  in 
keeping  with  funerals  and  religious  rites ;  still 
others,  like  the  modem  classic  and  dramatic 
dances,  attempt  to  produce  a  feeling  of  physical 
exhilaration  in  the  spectator,  or  to  interpret, 
"spontaneously  and  freely,"  the  mood  or  spirit 
or  subject  of  a  piece  of  music.  But  in  no  in- 
stance is  there  a  profound  concern  with  aesthetics. 
Since  music's  sole  basis  is  a  precise  edifice  of 
form  which  presents  itself  as  a  simultaneous  im- 
age, its  TTiood  is  secondary  and,  to  a  great  extent, 
inconsequent.  Therefore,  to  interpret  merely  this 
mood  is  to  ignore  music's  cardinal  significance. 
Furthermore,  the  ultimate  worth  of  a  work  of  art 
lies  in  its  simultaneity  of  effect;  and  the  mood, 
which  seldom  remains  the  same  throughout  a  com- 
position, is  impossible  of  visualisation  as  one  or- 
ganic block-manifestation.  Likewise  the  dance 
(no  matter  what  its  actual  intention,  whether  for- 
mal or  vaguely  emotional)  is  insusceptible  of  this 
visualisation,  for,  even  were  its  movements  capa- 
ble of  extended  development  toward  a  formal  cli- 


166  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

max,  through  tonic  phrases  and  motif  repetitions 
as  in  music,  painting  and  literature,  the  spectator 
would  be  unable  to  feel  the  recurrent  rhythms  on 
account  of  their  being  spaced  (as  to  time)  too  far 
apart  to  form  a  metrical  sequence.  Each  move- 
ment of  the  dance  which  results  in  a  physical  dis- 
placement and  a  return  to  bodily  balance  is  a 
complete  rhythmic  cycle;  and,  were  longer  or 
larger  rhythms  attempted,  the  strain  of  the  body 
would  be  felt  by  the  beholder  as  well  as  by  the 
dancer,  and  the  sense  of  fluidity  and  smoothness 
would  be  lost.  Consequently,  in  witnessing  the 
dance,  the  greatest  emotion  experienced  is  that 
projection  of  perfect  ease  and  freedom  which,  in 
its  intensity,  is  always  basically  dramatic.  The 
highest  forms  of  dancing  are  only  capable  of  su- 
perficial rhythm — rhythm  which  is  really  move- 
ment, not  action.  The  underlying  aesthetic 
rhythm,  which  welds  every  detail  into  a  formal 
whole  and  gives  an  art  work  life,  is  necessarily 
absent.  Therefore  the  philosophical  significance, 
without  which  there  is  no  great  art,  is  lost  en- 
tirely. What  remains  is  a  lyrical  drama,  a  po- 
etic and  charmingly  cadenced  pantomime,  a  suc- 
cession of  elegant  and  emotional  postures.  The 
interest  in  the  modern  revival  of  dancing  is  purely 
sensual  and  primitively  rhythmic.  The  frantic 
prancings  and  the  gaudy  colour  schemes  of  the 
Russians  amount  to  no  more  than  a  pantomime 


PROBLEMS  OF  ESTHETICS        167 

on  a  background  of  pageantry,  and  are  interest- 
ing only  as  a  recreation.  But  though  dancing 
can  never  take  its  place  in  the  realms  of  great 
art,  it  has  a  very  definite  and  important  destiny. 
In  all  educational  systems,  such  as  Delsarte's,  it 
possesses  a  high  utility  as  a  personal  expression 
of  emotional  enthusiasm:  it  is  a  game  and  an  ex- 
ercise for  the  development  of  physical  grace  and 
more  harmonious  bodily  proportions. 

122. 

Synthesis  in  Art. — Too  great  an  importance 
is  attached  to  the  synthesis  of  a  work  of  art. 
Such  an  attitude  is  inevitable,  however,  so  long  as 
art  is  regarded  wholly  from  a  standpoint  of  rep- 
resentation. Synthesis  is  to  representative  art 
what  order  is  to  empathic  art.  In  painting,  syn- 
thesis means  that  each  pictorial  part  of  a  pic- 
ture is  relative  to  all  the  other  parts.  There  is 
a  consistency  or  logic  in  all  the  colours,  shapes, 
lines,  and  tones.  These  elements  are  combined  in 
such  a  way  as  to  give  the  impression  of  a  simple 
vision,  of  a  perfect  objective  ensemble.  No  one 
item  in  the  picture — volume,  atmosphere,  light, 
action,  colour,  texture  or  proportion — obtrudes 
or  even  asserts  itself  as  the  thing  it  is.  Together 
they  create  a  single  new  element  in  the  form  of  an 
interior,  a  landscape,  a  figure  piece  or  a  still-life. 


168  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

In  literature,  synthesis  is  the  perfect  amalga- 
mation of  thought,  subject-matter,  description, 
character  and  incident  into  a  complete,  uniform 
narrative  idea.  Synthesis  in  music  is  the  com- 
bining of  a  certain  tempo,  a  certain  pitch,  a 
certain  harmony  and  a  certain  sound  volume  in 
such  a  manner  that  a  single  sustained  mood  re- 
sults— mood  in  music  being  the  representative  ele- 
ment which  corresponds  to  the  pictorial  idea  in 
painting  and  the  narrative  idea  in  literature.  In 
short,  synthesis  in  art  means  that  the  separated 
elements  of  a  work  are  compounded  in  such  exact 
proportions  as  to  constitute  a  whole.  But  this 
synthesis,  while  necessary  to  all  art,  is  not  synony- 
mous with  greatness.  The  fundamental  compo- 
sitional order  is  of  far  greater  importance.  Here 
the  representative  relationships  are  moulded  into 
a  complication  of  aesthetic  ordonnance.  The  rec- 
ognised vision  is  extended  into  a  three-dimensioned 
emotional  depth.  The  shapes,  episodes  or  notes 
are  given  a  formal  significance  and  are  carried 
into  apposition,  development  and  finality.  The 
work  of  art  then  ceases  to  be  merely  representative 
and  becomes  the  medium  of  abstract  forces. 


123. 

Purity  and  Neutrality  in  the  Arts. — Just 
as  a  pure  orange,  when  of  middle  tonality,  will 


PROBLEMS  OF  ESTHETICS        169 

advance  nearer  the  eye  than  when  mixed,  though 
still  pure  in  character  and  vibration,  with  the 
nearest  tonality  of  neutral  grey,  so  will  middle 
C,  when  played  on  an  instrument  whose  inherent 
purity  lies  alone  in  this  central  scale,  approach 
nearer  to  the  ear  (provided  the  volume  is  equal 
in  both  cases)  than  when  played  on  an  instru- 
ment whose  tonal  purity  lies  in  another  (a  higher 
or  lower)  key.  (Middle  C,  when  sounded  on  this 
latter  instrument,  will  seem  to  have  had  something 
added  or  subtracted  which  neutralises  the  clar- 
ity.) Literature,  whose  mechanical  medium  is 
words,  can  strike  a  purer  note  when  the  writer 
makes  a  proper  choice  of  certain  cadences  and 
onomatopoeic  words,  as,  for  example,  when  quick 
and  febrile  action  is  expressed  by  harsh  Anglo- 
Saxon  derivatives,  or  when  a  sentimental  scene  is 
recorded  with  long,  flowing  and  soft  words  of 
Latin  origin. 

Forte  and  Piano  in  the  Arts. — One  of 
the  very  important  structural  devices  in  art  is 
the  intensification  and  the  diminution  of  volumes, 
whether  of  sound,  episode,  or  colour;  namely,  the 
device  of  forte  and  piano.  In  a  piece  of  music 
the  composer  explicitly  denotes  when  the  volume 
of  sound  shall  be  intensified  or  diminished  so  that 


170  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

it  will  completely  balance,  by  its  power  or  weak- 
ness of  utterance,  another  part  of  the  composi- 
tion. The  result  of  such  forte  and  piano  is  the 
extending  and  diminishing  (respectively)  of  the 
subjective  proportions  of  the  affected  parts. 
Forte  and  piano  in  painting  are  represented  by 
the  actual  extent  of  the  visual  forms — if  large 
and  dominating,  the  effect  is  forte;  if  small  and 
only  slightly  in  evidence,  the  effect  is  piano.  In 
literature  forte  is  obtained  by  the  dictional  in- 
sistence and  emphasis  of  verbal  visualisation. 
Thus  are  accentuated  the  salient  sequences  on 
which  the  fluent  and  balanced  thread  of  the  work 
depends.  Piano  in  literature  results  from  casual 
references  and  suggestions,  and  is  used  when  epi- 
sodes, persons  or  ideas  are  unimportant.  Any 
work  of  art  in  which  the  forte  and  the  piano  are 
reversed  is  thrown  out  of  proportion:  the  aug- 
mentation of  those  parts  which  were  intended  to 
be  small,  and  the  shrinking  of  the  necessarily  large 
parts,  destroy  the  homogeneity  of  the  conception. 
The  effect  of  interchanging  these  qualities  in  mu- 
sic would  be  analogous  to  that  of  a  picture  in 
which  the  perspective  was  exactly  reversed:  the 
result  would  be  incongruous  and  ludicrous.  In 
literature  the  same  effect  could  be  obtained  by  en- 
larging and  emphasising  the  minor  details  and 
condensing  the  important  episodes  into  brief 
statements. 


PROBLEMS  OF  ESTHETICS        171 

125. 

Linear  Effects. — ^Lines  in  art  have  signifi- 
cance according  to  their  character.  Artists — and 
especially  painters — have  felt  the  effect  of  lines, 
but  few  have  determined  the  results  of  linear  fluc- 
tuability.  Straight  lines  produce  calm,  not  only 
when  they  are  placed  horizontally  (as  is  generally 
believed),  but  in  any  position  whatever.  So  little 
does  the  straight  line  vary  in  significance,  that  its 
direction  is  negligible  from  an  emotional  stand- 
point. It  represents  the  static,  the  hfeless,  the 
rigid.  The  emotional  element  of  a  line  is  deter- 
mined by  its  degree  of  curve.  On  curved  lines  de- 
pend all  movement  and,  hence,  all  great  composi- 
tional form.  The  straight  line  in  aesthetic  or- 
ganisations is  only  a  foil  to  the  curved  line  which 
represents  the  plastic,  the  alive,  and  the  mobile. 

126. 

Repose  in  Art. — The  word  "repose,"  as  it  is 
commonly  used  in  reference  to  art  works,  con- 
notes no  more  than  an  illusion  of  repose.  In 
painting  it  refers  to  the  even  use  of  greys  and 
the  static  and  motionless  perpendicularity  of  com- 
positional forms.  In  literature  it  means  merely 
that  the  subject-matter  is  obvious  and  is  re- 
corded in   a  leisurely   and   rhythmically   uniform 


172  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

manner.  In  music  it  indicates  simple  harmonic 
sequences,  an  absence  of  unexpected  transitions, 
and  a  constant  reverting  to  the  tonic.  In  short, 
whether  in  painting,  literature  or  music,  it  is  more 
or  less  synonymous  with  placidity,  immobility, 
and  monotony.  Real  repose  in  art,  however — • 
that  is,  repose  in  the  sesthetic  sense — is  something 
much  more  recondite  than  uniformity  or  monot- 
ony. It  is  created  by  a  complete  harmonious  or- 
ganisation, not  by  an  avoidance  of  movement  and 
contrast.  When  a  work  of  art  is  so  rhythmically 
co-ordinated  that  it  presents  an  absolute  finality 
of  movement  and  balance  and  thus  engenders  an 
emotional,  as  well  as  an  oracular  and  ocular,  rest- 
fulness  and  relaxation,  then,  and  only  then,  it 
possesses  true  artistic  repose. 

127. 

Movement,  and  the  Hollow  and  the  Bump. 
— "Movement"  in  a  work  of  art  is  obtained  by 
alternating  the  hollow  and  the  bump;  and  the 
rapidity  of  the  process  of  placement  and  dis- 
placement determines  the  rapidity  of  the  move- 
ment. The  acceleration  of  this  process  is  anal- 
ogous to  a  man  who  first  walks  and  then  in- 
creases his  speed  to  running.  In  walking  he 
puts  forward  a  leg  whose  advancement  creates  a 
bump,  and  whose  displacement  results  in  a  hoi- 


PROBLEMS  OF  ESTHETICS        173 

low.     Over  the  advanced  leg  is  the  hollow  caused 
by   the    displacement    of    the    shoulder;    and   the 
shoulder  itself  constitutes  the  bump  which  hangs 
over  the  hollow  of  the  displaced  leg.     Thus  there 
are  two  hollows   and  two  bumps  which  are  con- 
tinually  alternating;    and   the   rapidity   of   their 
alternations   is   the  measure  of  the  man's   speed. 
Were  he  to  run  very  fast  the  eye  would  be  un- 
able to  follow  the  swift  successions  of  his  place- 
ments and  displacements:  the  sensation  of  move- 
ment in  the  spectator  would  be  supplanted  by  a 
mere   recognition   of   progress:   the   man's   figure 
(save    for   its    relation   to   a   background)    would 
appear  static.     The  bumps  and  hollows  in  music 
are  the  accents  and  the  spaces;  in  literature,  the 
episodes  and  pauses;  and  in  painting,  the  formal 
convexities    and   concavities.      And  when   the   al- 
ternations of  these  bumps  and  hollows,  in  any  of 
the  arts,  become  very  rapid,  the  effect  is  analo- 
gous to  a  swiftly-moving  figure.     Thus  when  mu- 
sical notes  (from  which  results  the  tempo)  follow 
each  other  too  quickly  for  the  ear  to  distinguish 
them  as  rhythmic  repetitions  (as  in  a  trill  or  a 
tremolo),  the  surplus  of  speed  results  in  exceed- 
ing slowness :  many  notes  strike  the  consciousness 
as  one  prolonged  note.     Literature,  in  which  the 
action  is  too  swift  to  be  fluent  and  sequential,  be- 
comes repetitive  and  monotonous,  and  ceases  to 
possess  dramatic  movement.     If,  in   a  painting, 


174  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

the  forms,  or  lines,  or  colours,  or  tones  are  too 
minute,  in  relation  to  the  canvas  as  a  whole,  for 
the  eye  to  adjust  itself  to  their  formal  atmos- 
phere, the  effect  is  one  of  static  chaos.  But  if, 
in  the  course  of  these  examples  of  frenzied  move- 
ment, wider  divisions  of  phrase,  of  action,  or  of 
form  should  appear,  there  springs  into  existence 
a  new  and  larger,  but  slower,  rhythm,  each  di- 
vision of  which  is  composed  of  very  small  parts. 
It  is  as  if  a  man  running  with  great  speed  should, 
at  regular  intervals,  slow  down  or  stop,  and  again 
rush  forward.  The  mass  of  small  movements 
made  in  each  advance  then  becomes  to  the  spec- 
tator one  movement;  and  this  mass  is  comple- 
mented by  a  further  series  of  movements  which 
result  in  still  another  large  movement.  Here  we 
have  an  analogy  of  that  multiplicity  in  simplicity 
which  characterises  all  great  art. 

128. 

The  UNiauE  Presentation  of  Every  Ele- 
ment IN  A  Work  of  Art. — The  writer  and  the 
musician  have  been  fortunate  in  possessing  a 
ready-made  and  rationalised  medium.  The  mu- 
sician serves  himself  with  a  standard  scale  whose 
divisions  and  harmonic  arrangements  have  been 
thoroughly  investigated  and  recorded.  The 
writer   uses   phonetic   symbols    and   a   system   of 


PROBLEMS  OF  ESTHETICS        175 

syntax  which  are  necessarily  common  property. 
But  the  painter  must  pass  through  a  long  period 
of  experimentation  and  research  before  he  even 
arrives  at  the  point  of  expression.  His  medium 
— colour — is  little  understood,  and  its  precise 
functionings  can  be  determined  only  after  years 
of  analj'sis  and  testing.  So  little  does  the  world 
know  of  colour  that  the  painter  who  uses  it  as 
the  sole  material  of  his  work  is  regarded  as  a 
theorist  who  has  turned  his  back  upon  life.  It 
is  only  during  the  past  century  that  artists  have 
cast  off  the  bonds  of  traditional  ignorance  and 
attempted  to  purify  their  art ;  and  it  is  only  with- 
in the  last  few  years  that  they  have  regarded  the 
natural  medium  of  colour  as  the  first  considera- 
tion in  aesthetic  expression,  just  as  sound  and 
document  (expressed  by  words)  are  the  first  con- 
siderations of  music  and  literature.  Formerly 
the  painter  drew  his  picture  first,  then  made  a 
chiaroscuro,  next  worked  out  the  composition,  and 
in  the  end  applied  a  layer  of  ornamental  colours. 
The  picture,  while  charming  and  attractive,  pos- 
sessed no  significance  as  a  piece  of  colour  art. 
This  is  why  the  works  of  the  old  masters  lose 
little  of  their  inherent  power  in  black-and-white 
reproductions.  Beethoven,  on  the  other  hand, 
used  sound  to  express  every  quality  of  his  works ; 
and  it  is  this  oneness  of  vision — this  amalgama- 
tion of  every  possible  element  into   a  single  im- 


176  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

pulse — that  gives  the  close-knit  perfection  to  his 
music.  Volume,  form,  rhythm,  order,  and  poise 
all  grow  out  of  the  single  medium,  sound.  Noi: 
until  painters  in  general  learn  the  lesson  that 
colour  in  itself  can  express  all  their  sesthetic  in- 
spirations, will  painting  take  its  place  beside  the 
purer  art  of  music.  In  any  art  we  must  receive 
our  impression  uniquely,  not  piecemeal:  the  aes- 
thetic emotion  must  be  simultaneously  presented. 
And  this  is  possible  only  when  the  artist  con- 
ceives and  executes  his  vision  d'un  coup, 

129. 

Appeopriate  Means. — Since  the  foundation  of 
all  art  is  compositional  form,  the  only  means 
which  can  be  accepted  as  vital  are  those  which 
increase  the  artist's  power  in  the  expression  of 
rhythmic  ensembles. 

130. 

Synthesis  of  the  Arts. — The  numerous  at- 
tempts which  have  been  made  to  synthesise  the 
arts  have  been  the  outgrowth  of  a  vague  realisa- 
tion that  the  aesthetic  fundamentals  of  all  the 
arts  are  identical.  Their  failure  has  not  been 
due  to  any  inherent  impossibility  of  unifying  dif- 
ferent stimuli  so  as  to  produce  an  intensity  of 
reaction,  but  to  the  fact  that  the  arts  as  yet  are 


PROBLEMS  OF  MSTHETICS        177 

not  understood  with  sufficient  precision  by  any 
one  man.  Not  until  a  definite  rationale  has  been 
estabhshed,  embodying  every  phase,  complexity 
and  variation  of  the  different  arts,  will  such  a 
synthesis  succeed. 


ni 

ART  AND  THE  ARTIST 


131. 

Evolution  in  the  Individual. — The  entire 
past  progress  of  an  art  is  condensed  and  expressed 
in  each  of  its  great  exponents. 

132. 

Talent  and  Genius. — Talent  is  the  ability  to 
express  effectively  the  mere  material  of  human  ex- 
perience. Genius  is  the  ability  to  divine  and  to 
give  expression  to  the  forces  which  underlie  and 
co-ordinate  this  material.  Thus  genius  is  essen- 
tially a  philosophic  process  which  finds  expres- 
sion through  talent.  Every  great  work  of  art  is 
a  statement  of  the  plastic  unity  of  existence. 

133. 

Life  and  the  Artist. — There  can  be  no  great 
ascetic  artist.  The  richness,  variety  and  contrast 
which  are  necessary  to  the  nature  of  the  artist 
who  achieves  great  organisations  of  form,  must 
have  resulted  through  much  contact  with  the 
many  phases  of  life.  Even  the  life  of  the  mind  is 
wholly  dependent  on  objective  nature  for  both  its 
181 


183  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

most  obvious  and  its  most  remote  ideas.  There 
is,  of  course,  a  quality  of  mind  which  is  inher- 
ently rich;  but  the  material  thought  must  needs 
be  gleaned  from  life.  All  other  things  being  equal, 
the  artist  who  has  had  the  more  febrile  life  of 
body  and  brain  will  create  the  greater  art.  By 
life  is  not  meant  merely  physical  adventures — the 
superficial  experiences  of  indulgence.  The  life  in- 
dispensable to  the  artist  is  that  which  calls  upon 
him  for  the  exercise  of  his  powers,  which  teaches 
him  the  necessity  of  intellectual  combat,  and  which 
therefore  develops  his  consciousness  and  teaches 
him  the  laws  of  poise,  balance  and  plasticity. 


134. 

The  Part  and  the  Whole. — Hand  in  hand 
with  an  artist's  vision  of  the  whole  must  go  an  in- 
finite capacity  for  fitting  together  the  most  me- 
ticulous details.  A  great  work  of  art  is  great  in 
any  one  of  its  parts,  for  in  every  detail  is  em- 
bodied the  whole. 

185. 

Parvenus. — Discipledom  in  the  young  artist  is 
as  necessary  as  his  later  emancipation.  No  one 
can  commence  building  an  art  where  his  most  ad- 
vanced predecessor  left  off.     He  must  travel  the 


ART  AND  THE  ARTIST  183 

same  road  as  that  taken  by  his  predecessor  if  he 
is  ever  to  outdistance  him.  Happily,  all  artists 
start  from  the  same  goal,  namely,  aesthetic  igno- 
rance. And  they  can  never  learn  by  another's  mis- 
takes. They  must  make  those  mistakes  themselves 
before  the  experience  can  become  assimilated  and 
the  lesson  felt.  A  disciple's  progress  is,  of  course, 
faster  than  his  forerunner's.  The  latter's  trail  is 
open  to  all;  his  methods  are  clarified.  To  pass 
beyond  him  when  the  extent  of  his  achievement 
has  been  reached  is  the  great  problem  of  the  in- 
novator. The  new  man  not  only  must  overcome 
prejudice,  contumely  and  conservative  ignorance, 
but  he  must  construct  a  highway  as  he  goes.  The 
brave  man  who  follows  this  long  and  difficult  route 
has  only  scorn  for  those  artists  who  leap  from 
rudimentary  academism  to  the  last  phase  of  art's 
progress.  These  latter  men  are  parvenus,  lovers 
of  shallow  effects.  They  succeed  only  in  imitat- 
ing the  surface  aspects  of  the  masters. 

136. 

Creation  and  Analysis  Are  One. — ^Let  us  no 
longer  separate  the  analytic  mind  from  the  crea- 
tive. The  highest  type  of  analytic  mind  resides 
in  him  most  able  to  create.  An  artist  can  pro- 
gress in  his  work  only  to  so  high  a  point  as  he 
can  understand. 


184  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

137. 

Childeen  of  Theie  Epochs. — The  painter  or 
sculptor  who,  endeavouring  to  belittle  modern  ef- 
forts in  art,  asserts  that  he  is  a  child  of  Egypt, 
Assyria  or  Greece,  reveals  at  once  his  complete 
ignorance  of  the  art  of  those  countries.  In  order 
to  produce  work  such  as  the  ancients  produced 
one  must  of  necessity  possess  the  same  type  of 
temperament  and  mentality  which  the  ancients 
possessed.  Such  a  mental  parallel  is  obviously 
impossible  between  two  totally  different  ages,  for 
attitude  and  temperament  are  governed  by  the 
organisms  of  environment.  A  painter  or  sculptor 
who  lays  claim  to  these  temperamental  affinities 
is  unable  to  grasp  the  foundations  of  modernity. 
And  since  those  foundations  were  laid  in  the  an- 
cient and  medieval  worlds,  the  "modern  primitive" 
can  probe  no  deeper  than  the  superficial  aspects 
of  those  early  works  with  which  he  claims  rela- 
tionship. At  best  he  can  give  birth  only  to  a  bas- 
tard and  weakened  art.  He  who  is  not  of  his  own 
age  belongs  to  none. 

138. 

Freedom  and  Law. — We  hear  much  of  the 
cramping  restrictions  being  put  on  artists  by  the 
dictates  of  aesthetics ;  and  simultaneously  demands 
are  made  for  the  absolute  freedom  of  the  creator 


ART  AND  THE  ARTIST  185 

as  the  only  means  for  full  and  significant  expres- 
sion. But  there  can  be  no  freedom  without  law 
and  order.  Anarchy  is  but  a  spurious  form  of 
freedom,  which  restricts  the  liberties  of  the  indi- 
vidual. Order  is  the  basis  and  meaning  of  life. 
Only  because  of  stringent  laws  is  it  possible  to 
indulge  in  volitional  action  with  safety.  If  ve- 
hicles, for  instance,  were  not  legally  restricted  as 
to  their  course,  the  simple  process  of  stepping 
forth  into  the  street  would  require  a  constant 
attention  which  would  limit  not  only  our  freedom 
of  thought  but  our  freedom  of  action.  The  same 
law  applies  to  art.  An  artist  without  aesthetic 
laws  would  find  himself  handicapped  by  the  in- 
superable confusion  of  chaos.  He  would  be  en- 
slaved by  the  disorder  of  freedom. 

139. 

The  Rhetoricai.  Escape. — The  artist  who 
talks  of  the  spirit  and  of  the  spiritualisations  in 
his  work  is  ignorant  of  the  body.  He  is  merely 
throwing  metaphysical  sand  in  the  eyes  of  criti- 
cism. 

140. 

Sensitivity  and  Technique. — The  science  of 
aesthetics  does  not  concern  itself  with  petty  rules 
governing  methods   of  expression — that  is,  with 


186  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

the  grammar  of  art.  It  has  to  do  wholly  with 
the  underlying  structure  as  related  to  human  or- 
ganisms. Sensitivity  in  art  (given  even  a  rudi- 
mentary knowledge  of  technique)  will  always  tri- 
umph over  mere  technical  skill,  for  sensitivity  im- 
plies an  intimate  fellowship  with  aesthetic  form. 
Schubert,  who  wrote  passages  so  bad  from  the 
standpoint  of  the  text-books  that  a  conservatory 
pupil  would  be  ashamed  of  them,  was  a  master 
melodist.  What  is  more  naively  beautiful  than  the 
second  subject  of  the  first  movement  of  the  Unfin- 
ished Symphony,  or  the  slow  movements  in  the  two 
Trios,  Opi  99  and  100?  Schumann,  on  the  other 
hand,  an  inferior  artist,  was  the  perfect  specimen 
of  the  composer  of  talent,  highly  educated  and 
musically  correct  in  all  he  wrote.  Matisse's  draw- 
ings, as  sensitive  and  naif  as  a  Schubert  melody, 
are  greater  than  the  most  polished  work  of  the 
merely  proficient  academicians.  But  bear  this 
in  mind:  a  lack  of  technical  skill  is  not  a  virtue, 
but  an  actual  handicap.  The  greatest  artists — 
the  Bachs  and  the  Rubenses — combined  a  colossal 
technique  with  a  highly  developed  sesthetic  sen- 
sitivity. A  sensitivity  is  of  no  value  unless  one 
possesses  the  capacity  to  transmit  it  through 
some  medium;  and,  other  things  being  equal,  the 
artist  with  the  greatest  technical  facility  will 
be  able  to  set  down  his  vision  with  the  purest 
intensity. 


ART  AND  THE  ARTIST  187 

141. 

Richard  Wagner. — It  is  commonly  said  that 
Wagner  was  the  greatest  operatic  composer. 
Rather,  let  us  say,  he  was  the  greatest  composer 
who  wrote  opera.  Puccini  is  an  operatic  com- 
poser: he  fits  his  form  to  the  libretto.  Wag- 
ner's best  music — that  in  Die  Meister singer,  for 
instance — possesses  a  form  of  its  own,  unrelated 
to  the  dramatic  story.  His  greatness  lies  in  the 
fact  that  his  music  is,  in  the  strict  sense,  anti- 
operatic.  He  was  more  intent  on  developing  mo- 
tifs than  on  developing  a  dramatic  story. 

142. 

Sporadic  Reactions  in  Composers. — It  has 
been  said  that  there  comes  a  time  in  every  com- 
poser's life  when  he  turns  to  illustration  for  inspi- 
ration. Of  late  years  the  reaction  to  programme 
music  and  opera  is  dictated  by  the  same  impulses, 
in  terms  of  a  cycle  of  endeavour,  that  each  sep- 
arate composer  at  times  feels  as  an  individual. 
In  both  cases  it  marks  the  return  of  the  pioneer  to 
the  soft  happiness  of  mediocrity:  it  is  the  tem- 
porary fatigue  of  intellectual  endeavour  with  the 
accompanying  desire  for  stability  and  comfort — 
the  momentary  reaction  from  the  mental  to  the 
sentimental. 


188  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

143. 

Cycles  of  -Esthetic  Development. — All  in- 
dividuals who  create  consummately  are  first  dom- 
inated by  the  emotional.  From  that  they  pass 
into  an  abstract  and  cerebral  period  of  analysis 
and  pure  composition.  Later,  the  pendulum 
swinging  back,  the  two  become  one,  and  the  high- 
est art  results.  (Beethoven's  highest  individual 
creation  began  with  the  Third  Symphony.  After 
his  two  Mozartian  experiments  he  wrote  the  Ero- 
ica.  This  is  an  almost  wholly  emotional  work, 
which  accounts  for  its  popularity  among  the  un- 
tutored. Then  followed  the  Fourth  Symphony, 
a  pure  piece  of  intellectual  writing,  which  has  had 
no  special  vogue.  These  two  impulses  were  com- 
bined in  the  Fifth,  the  greatest  of  the  Beethoven 
Symphonies.  The  Pastoral  was  an  illustrative  in- 
terlude, marking  the  close  of  the  cycle.  Then 
the  emotional  impulse  reappeared  in  the  Seventh. 
Again  this  was  followed  by  the  pure  intellectu- 
alism  of  the  Eighth.  And  the  second  cycle  ended 
with  the  Ninth,  Beethoven's  second  greatest  sym- 
phony, in  which  were  combined  the  two  preced- 
ing impulses.  Regard  also  the  keys  in  which 
these  symphonies  were  cast.  The  two  emotional 
symphonies — the  Third  and  the  Seventh — are  in 
Eb  and  A  respectively,  both  sentimental  keys. 
The  purely  intellectual  symphonies — the  Fourth 


ART  AND  THE  ARTIST  189 

and  the  Eighth — are  in  Bb  and  F  respectivelj^, 
two  of  the  harshest  and  "noisiest"  keys.  The 
Fifth  and  the  Ninth  Symphonies — the  two  great- 
est of  Beethoven's  compositions — are  both  in 
minor,  the  first  C,  and  the  second  D.  Their  ac- 
tual tonality  is  magistral  and  embodies  both  the 
emotionalism  and  the  purity  of  the  other  two  sets 
of  keys.)  Nations  and  movements  follow  exactly 
this  evolution.  Those  that  remain  adolescent  are 
emotional;  those  whose  capacity  to  visualise  is 
atrophied  are  analytic  and  abstract;  the  others^ 
undergo  all  influences  equally  and  produce  great 
and  comprehensive  art.  The  cycle  renews  itself 
eternally :  when  a  consummation  has  been  reached 
there  is  again  the  reaction  to  emotionalism.  The 
length  and  power  of  the  periods  of  productivity 
depend  upon  national  and  individual  tempera- 
ment, and  upon  susceptibility  or  insusceptibility 
to  reaction. 

144. 

Unity  of  Diction  and  Thought. — The  man- 
ner of  expression,  in  order  to  be  effective,  must  re- 
flect the  thought  or  thing  expressed.  A  heavy 
pedantic  style  does  not  fit  a  light  subject,  nor 
does  dictional  buffoonery  fit  serious  ideas.  The 
element  of  association  enters  into  all  expression. 
Words  and  phrases  are  the  symbols  of  document, 
and  must  carry  in  their  atmosphere  the  character 


190  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

of  the  substance.  A  funeral  march  may  be  so 
rendered  as  to  make  it  ludicrous ;  and  the  man 
whose  style  is  superficial  gives  the  impression  of 
superficial  thinking.  The  powerful  writer  is  the 
one  who  matches  his  thought  and  diction. 

145. 

The  Seeming  Disagreement  of  Artists. — 
"How  can  there  be  such  a  thing  as  an  artistic 
truth,"  the  public  asks,  "when  nearly  all  great 
artists  differ  among  themselves  in  art  theory.'' 
Which  art  school  is  right;  which,  wrong?  We 
can  only  choose  that  which  appeals  personally  to 
us;  that,  for  us,  is  great  art.  Obviously  there 
can  be  no  standard  with  all  the  exponents  of  art 
at  constant  disagreement."  Persons  who  reason 
in  this  manner  are  handicapped  by  a  superficial 
vision,  and  are  consequently  led  to  false  conclu- 
sions. No  two  great  artists  differ  radically  con- 
cerning art.  The  fundamental  basis  of  art  form 
is  recognised  and  understood.  Michelangelo,  Ru- 
bens, Renoir,  Cezanne :  Goethe,  Balzac,  Flaubert, 
Conrad:  Haydn,  Beethoven,  Brahms,  Richard 
Strauss: — the  aesthetic  foundation  of  all  these 
men  is  identical.  They  can — and  must — be 
judged  by  the  same  basic  standard.  They  aspire 
to  the  same  exalted  goal;  they  assume  the  same 
aesthetic  premise.     They  differ  only  as  to  method. 


ART  AND  THE  ARTIST  191 

They  are  in  disagreement  only  as  to  means.  The 
manner  of  presentation  in  art  passes  through 
many  a  diverse  and  evolutionary  stage.  But  the 
thing  presented  does  not  vary.  It  is  unalterable 
and  eternal.  The  body  of  art  remains  unchanged. 
Only  the  clothes  in  the  wardrobe  of  art  give  rise 
to  discussion  among  the  great  creators.  Renoir 
is  a  great  painter  for  precisely  the  same  reason 
that  Rubens  is  a  great  painter. 

146. 

Invention  as  the  First  Step  Toward  Imagi- 
nation.— Invention  is  the  organisation  of  mem- 
ory: it  is  dead  because  it  possesses  no  inherent 
vitality.  Imagination  translates  invention  onto 
the  plane  of  living  things,  for  it  infuses  invention 
with  the  vitalising  source  of  all  thought — the 
philosophic  outlook. 

147. 

Invention  and  Imagination. — Invention  de- 
termines certain  forms,  and  then  forces  the  ar- 
tist's material  into  those  forms.  It  is  like  a  foun- 
dry mould  into  which  is  poured  the  melted  ore. 
The  result  is  predetermined  and  foreseen.  In- 
vention is  also  like  a  machine  constructed  for  some 
utilitarian  purpose;  and  its  beauty  lies  only  in 


192  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

its  adaptability  to  the  desired  end.  An  inven- 
tive painter,  like  Tintoretto,  draws  several  lines 
and  builds  his  picture  on  these  lines.  The  large 
masses  follow  the  lines,  but  the  small  masses,  which 
are  as  important  to  the  unity  of  the  work  as  are 
the  large  ones,  have  no  ultimate  destiny,  Tin- 
toretto's art  gives  forth  the  impression  of  having 
been  fabricated.  It  is  to  great  art  what  an  ani- 
mated automaton  is  to  life.  Though  perfect  as 
a  piece  of  mechanism,  it  still  lacks  vitality.  Im- 
agination is  creation  by  evolutionary  sequences. 
From  an  idea,  which  is  the  chemistry  of  art,  forms 
grow;  and  from  out  these  forms  others  spring, 
dependent  and  interdependent.  These  latter 
forms  are  the  direct  and  logical  result  of  what 
has  come  before ;  and  when  they  are  combined  with 
the  first  set  of  forms,  they  give  birth  to  still  fur- 
ther developments.  The  aesthetic  value  of  these 
imaginative  forms  is  dependent  upon  the  accuracy 
of  the  artist's  sensitivity  to  that  which  is  in- 
evitable in  shape  or  sound  or  action. 

148. 

Necessity  of  a  Parti  Pris  in  the  Arts. — ^A 
parti  pris  is  the  intensification  of  temperamental 
preferences  which  result  in  the  dissimilar  as- 
pects of  all  great  artists'  works.  Physically  all 
artists  see  and  hear  and  understand  nature  and 


ART  AND  THE  ARTIST  193 

objectivity  alike.  Were  they  all  merely  to  imi- 
tate life,  the  difference  between  their  work  would 
be  only  the  measure  of  their  graphic  ability  to 
record  the  same  vision.  But  a  parti  pris  goes 
deeper  than  the  eyesight:  it  has  to  do  with  the 
very  calibre  of  intelligence.  It  expresses  not  only 
an  artist's  aspirations,  but  his  limitations  as  well. 
It  is  his  philosophic  viewpoint  made  concrete: 
without  it  the  artist  is  only  a  recorder.  Those 
who  cry  out,  without  study  or  investigation, 
against  the  strange  aspect  of  a  certain  artist's 
work,  believing  it  to  be  merely  a  charlatan's  mask 
for  tricking  the  general,  reveal  at  once  their 
shallow  outlook.  Often  that  which  appears 
strange  to-day  is  the  milestone  of  a  new  impulse 
to-morrow.  A  genuine  parti  pris  is  not  a  mask 
or  an  eccentricity.    It  is  the  visage  of  a  new  soul. 

149. 

Ego. — It  is  only  when  the  love  for  and  confi- 
dence in  oneself  dominate  the  reverence  for  others 
that  the  artist  is  free  to  create. 

150. 

Need  of  the  Past. — The  past  is  a  very  neces- 
sary foundation  on  which  to  build  the  structure 
of  contemporary  art;  but,  for  those  who  have 
what  might  be   called   artistic   self-respect,   past 


194  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

achievements  can  be  only  a  starting-point.  In 
order  to  add  to  a  structure  which  ever  rises  high- 
er the  architect  must  thoroughly  know  the  base. 
It  is  a  lack  of  comprehension  of  art's  forerunners 
that  results,  on  the  one  hand,  in  the  spurious  an- 
archy, and,  on  the  other  hand,  in  the  infantile  ti- 
midity, of  the  so-called  artists  of  to-day.  The  an- 
archs, looking  only  as  far  as  the  superficial  as- 
pects of  their  antecedents,  call  for  an  auto-da-fe 
of  all  the  art  which  has  preceded  them.  The  timid 
ones,  having  no  initiative  or  penetration  them- 
selves, merely  accept  the  conventional  dictum  that 
the  aesthetic  foundation  of  the  past  is  correct; 
and,  since  they  are  beyond  art's  immediate  sur- 
roundings, they  raise  their  voices  in  praise  of 
reactionary  impulses.  Both  are  wrong  because 
neither  has  any  profound  understanding.  The 
former  should  realise  that  it  is  impossible  to  pro- 
duce in  one  generation  a  world  of  entirely  new 
beings — that  changes  are  the  result  of  a  slow 
building-up  process.  The  latter  would  do  well 
to  cease  their  attacks  on  the  more  advanced  ones 
long  enough  to  consider  where  art  would  now  be 
if  man  had  always  been  content  with  the  heritage 
of  the  past. 

151. 

Progress. — Any   artist   who   thoroughly   com- 
prehends the  latest  step  in  the  evolution  of  his 


ART  AND  THE  ARTIST  195 

art  can  add  something  to  that  evolution.  No 
man  has  receptive  enough  a  brain  to  encompass 
genius  without  having  genius  himself.  If  we  can 
understandingly  traverse  all  the  road  of  our 
forerunners,  we  have  proved  our  power.  Fur- 
thermore we  have  gained  strength,  and  can  go 
forward.  Contrary  to  accepted  opinion,  it  takes* 
creative  ability  to  understand  creation.  Is  not 
active  thinking  the  building  of  an  edifice.'' 

152. 

Conscious  and  Unconscious  Imitation. — 
Conscious  imitation  in  the  arts,  which  is  gener- 
ally regarded  as  charlatanism,  has  resulted  in  the 
great  man  pushing  forward  the  boundaries  of 
human  knowledge.  On  the  other  hand,  uncon- 
scious imitation,  which  as  a  rule  is  condoned,  is 
the  inevitable  etiquette  of  stagnation.  Those  who 
imitate  consciously  are  actively  weighing  the 
achievement  of  the  centuries  in  the  scales  of  an- 
alytic intelligence  for  the  purpose  of  making  a 
temperamental  choice  of  method.  Such  artists 
are  alive  to  their  own  individual  needs.  The  un- 
conscious imitator  merely  sees  the  world  through 
the  eyes  of  another,  the  reverence  for  whom  has 
dominated  free  expression.  Every  man  of  genius 
has  at  some  early  period  played  the  plagiarist  to 
more  than  one  master.     The  weaker  man,  never 


196  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

having  realised  his  forerunners,  is  without  knowl- 
edge of  their  profound  problems.  He  skims  over 
the  surface  of  art  like  a  boat  on  the  sea,  forever 
unaware  of  the  untold  depths,  pregnant  with 
forces,  which  lie  beneath  him. 


153. 

Insincerity  and  Imitation. — The  minute  vari- 
ations of  mental  characteristics  in  even  two  very 
similar  persons  are  proof  enough  that  imitation 
is  insincere  expression.  The  majority  of  artists 
whom  the  world  considers  great  are  no  more  than 
charlatans  who  have  seized  upon  the  knowledge 
of  others,  distorted  it  or  turned  it  into  ob- 
scure channels,  and  laid  claim  to  it  as  an  original 
discovery. 

154. 

The  Impr&vu  in  Art. — Many  mistake  the  "un- 
foreseen" in  art  for  greatness.  But  this  imprevu 
is  a  result  of  the  greatness  in  the  great — not  a 
goal  toward  which  they  work.  The  quality  in  it- 
self is  a  nugatory  one,  and,  as  a  rule,  is  the  label 
of  those  artists  who  wish  primarily  to  attract  at- 
tention. These  arrivistes  take  many  roads  to  no- 
toriety. They  count  almost  wholly  upon  a  bi- 
zarre of  effect  (spurious  radicalism)  to  create  a 
vogue.     The  true  radicals  of  the  day,  however, 


ART  AND  THE  ARTIST  197 

have  for  every  step  a  reason  which  is  deep-rooted 
in  the  experiences  of  aesthetic  emotion.  Their  de- 
sire is  to  construct  a  permanent  art — to  unearth 
the  laws  which  govern  our  enjoyment  of  beauty. 
The  false  radicals  desire  only  to  dazzle  us  for  the 
moment.  It  is  such  men  who  cry  out  against  any 
precise  analysis  of  art.  When  a  critic  ap- 
proaches the  shrine  of  their  hypocrisy,  they  cry 
"Systematiser"  and  "Theorist."  The  genuine  ar- 
tist invites  analysis.  There  are  hardy  roots  at 
the  base  of  his  impremb, 

155. 

''Lese-Mystere.''  — It  is  the  second-rate  artist 
who  always  rebels  against  exact  aesthetic  knowl- 
edge. The  great  artist  welcomes  it  and  even  at- 
tempts to  explain  the  processes  of  art  reaction. 
Says  Anatole  France :  "The  science  of  aesthetics 
has  no  firm  basis,"  and  he  attempts  to  explain  art 
on  mysterious  grounds.  Debussy's  resentment  of 
precise  knowledge  is  stated  thus:  "Men  in  gen- 
eral forget  that  as  children  they  were  forbidden 
to  dismember  their  puppets,  but  they  still  persist 
in  poking  their  aesthetic  noses  where  they  are  not 
wanted.  If  nowada^^s  they  have  ceased  to  split 
open  their  playthings  or  toys,  they  still  explain, 
dissect,  and  with  cool  indifference  put  an  end  to 
'all  mystery."     And  Rodin  declares  in  his  book. 


198  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

UArt,  that  mystery  is  the  atmosphere  that 
bathes  the  greatest  art.  Similarly,  other  artists 
of  their  calibre  make  impassioned  pleas  for  ig- 
norance. On  the  other  hand,  truly  great  men, 
like  Balzac,  Goethe,  Haydn,  Beethoven,  Da  Vinci 
and  Cezanne,  have  expressed  their  belief  in  ex- 
act aesthetic  knowledge,  and  have  endeavoured  to 
contribute  to  it.  The  artist  who  is  hostile  to  in- 
vestigation attests  to  his  own  artistic  insecurity. 
He  is  suspicious  of  his  own  power.  He  lacks  self- 
confidence,  and  sees  his  safest  course  in  giving  im- 
petus to  the  conspiracy  of  silence  and  unquestion- 
ing acceptance.  So  he  invents  a  new  crime — 
*'lese-mz/stere.^* 

156. 

P0SSIBI1.ITY  OF  Cataloguing  Art  Impulses. — 
From  incantations,  charms,  witchcraft  potions 
and  pilgrimages  to  sacred  springs,  to  the  preci- 
sion of  modern  medication  and  surgery  is  a  far 
cry,  and  there  are  few  who  would  revert  to  the 
former  methods  for  the  treatment  of  disease.  All 
this  progress  has  resulted  from  research,  experi- 
mentation and  observation,  related  and  co-ordi- 
nated until  something  like  a  scientific  rationale 
has  been  established.  And  the  science  of  aesthetics 
is  also  advanced  beyond  the  old  ideas  of  inspira- 
tion and  "divine"  eclecticism.  But  whenever  an 
attempt  is  made  to  introduce  scientific  analysis  in- 


ART  AND  THE  ARTIST  199 

to  art,  the  cry  of  blasphemy  is  raised.  However, 
despite  this  opposition  of  ignorance,  there  is  a 
movement  on  foot  to-day  to  find  the  wlit/  and  the 
how  of  aesthetic  activities ;  and  already  the  move- 
ment has  made  so  much  headway  that  prejudice 
and  contumely  and  cries  of  sacrilege  cannot  cast 
an  obstacle  in  the  way  sufficiently  large  to  impede 
its  advance.  Artists  are  openly  developing  a  con- 
sciosity.  They  are  striving  for  precision,  and 
are  delving  ever  deeper  into  the  heretofore  hidden 
fountain-head  of  causes  in  order  to  make  their  art 
more  truly  profound  and  philosophic  and  to  give 
it  a  more  universal  emotional  significance. 


157. 

Theopneusty. — The  day  of  the  belief  in  the 
"divine"  inspiration  (the  impulsive  performance) 
of  the  poet,  the  musician  and  the  painter  is  hap- 
pily passing.  The  marginal  rewritings  of  Bal- 
zac, the  infinite  pains  of  Michelangelo,  the  work- 
ers in  Rubens's  school  of  masterpieces,  the  note- 
books of  Beethoven,  the  years  taken  by  Cezanne 
to  finish  a  work,  the  months  of  patient  study  and 
the  constant  alterations  on  the  pictures  of  Ma- 
tisse— all  belie  the  sentimental  assumption  that  a 
divine  hand  guides  the  pen  and  brush  to  glory. 
The  birth  of  a  work  of  art  is  the  result  of  a  long, 
patient  and  painful  evolution.      It  is  the  trans- 


200  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

mutation  of  thought   (in  conjunction  with  emo- 
tion) into  a  precise  and  concrete  form. 

158. 

Appreciation. — The  artist  who  pretends  to  be 
utterly  indifferent  to  all  criticism  underestimates, 
rather  than  overestimates,  himself.  While  it  is 
true  that  only  a  creator  can  understand  great 
creation,  nevertheless  a  great  piece  of  art  will 
make  itself  felt  very  often  where  no  understand- 
ing of  it  exists.  The  majesty  of  a  supreme  art 
work  will  have  an  effect  without  being  apprecia- 
ted: its  power  will  engulf  people  despite  them- 
selves. This  is  why  critics  often  praise  art  works 
for  totally  inapposite  reasons.  They  are  striving 
to  express  something  they  have  felt  but  have  not 
comprehended.  Therefore  an  artist  should  not 
sneer  at  what  appears  to  be  ignorant  commenda- 
tion. But  let  him  make  sure  the  praise  is  spon- 
taneous, and  not  merely  the  mouthing  of  shallow- 
mindedness. 

159. 

Modus  Operandi. — In  all  art  the  end  justifies 
the  means.  Conscientiousness,  sincerity,  sacrifice, 
lengthy  endeavour,  idealistic  tenacity — these 
things  are  of  no  value  without  consummation. 
A  magnificent  result,  no  matter  how  hastily^  care- 


ART  AND  THE  ARTIST  201 

lesslj  or  falsely  achieved,  is  the  sole  test  of  great- 
ness. Only  failures,  and  the  weak  who  instinc- 
tively sympathise  with  failures,  make  an  artistic 
virtue  of  laborious  intentions. 


160. 

Decadence. — ^When  a  work  of  art  appears  to 
have  been  shunted  from  the  conventional,  familiar 
track  because  of  some  seeming  aberration  in  the 
artist's  mind,  which  has  given  him  a  distorted 
vision,  then  it  is  that  we  hear  the  accusation  of 
decadence.  But  very  often  the  unfamiliar  aspect 
of  an  art  work  is  indicative  of  the  reverse  of  de- 
cadence. Decadence  is  the  inability  to  create  new 
life;  but  the  word,  as  it  is  commonly  applied  to 
art,  is  so  distorted  that  it  has  no  exact  meaning. 
When  used  as  a  descriptive  adjective  for  litera- 
ture it  generally  connotes  "erotic."  A  composer 
is  "decadent"  when  he  attempts  harmonic  se- 
quences not  approved  by  the  text-books.  In 
painting,  "decadent"  indicates  obscurity  of  inten- 
tion or  novel  and  incomprehensible  effects.  Thus 
Swinburne,  Strauss  and  Matisse  are  "decadent," 
if  we  accept  the  dictum  of  the  critics.  The  word 
has  been  hurled  at  all  innovators ;  but,  in  the 
great  majority  of  cases,  it  attests  to  its  user's  in- 
ability to  understand  the  art  he  is  thus  stigma- 
tising.    No  experimenter  in  new  fields  is  decadent. 


202  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

The  true  decadents  are  the  accepted  and  respect- 
ed academicians  who  unsuccessfully  imitate  the 
work  that  has  preceded  them.  They  create  noth- 
ing new:  they  stand  for  retrogression. 

161. 

An  Analogy  for  Imitators. — No  one  believes 
that  a  photograph  of  a  clock  will  tell  time.  Yet 
there  are  those  who  assert  that  imitation  of  na- 
ture is  the  life  of  art ! 


162. 

The  Complete  Experience. — ^Art  is  the  out- 
come of  man's  contact  with  life  and  of  his  ability 
to  determine  the  cause  beneath  the  effect.  Great 
art  is  the  expression  of  the  man  who,  by  the  scope 
of  his  experiences,  is  both  a  monster  and  a  god. 
The  monstrous  part  of  life  is  quite  as  important 
to  knowledge  as  is  the  divine. 

163. 

Inspiration. — Inspiration  is  the  moment  of 
realisation.  For  instance,  we  know  a  fact  about 
art;  we  speak  of  it;  we  recognise  it  in  pictures. 
Yet  that  fact  remains  something  apart  from  us, 
something  which  has  not  been  incorporated  in  our 


ART  AND  THE  ARTIST  203 

being,  something  superimposed  upon  our  con- 
sciousness. Then,  without  warning  (we  may  be 
thinking  perhaps  of  other  things),  suddenly  a 
certain  thought  will  come  to  our  minds,  and,  with 
it,  a  great  reahsation  of  the  fact.  The  knowl- 
edge will  blind  us  mentally  for  a  moment  with  its 
colossal  reality,  with  the  impressiveness  of  its 
truth.  In  that  moment  we  have  ceased  merely  to 
know  the  fact :  we  have  come  to  experience  it.  It 
has  become  a  part  of  our  being.  At  that  mo- 
ment we  are  inspired.  At  that  moment  we  may 
cry,  "Eureka!" 

164. 

The  Revolt  Against  Cultuke. — There  are 
certain  modern  artists  who,  realising  the  futility 
of  merely  following  the  accepted  academic  stand- 
ards, seek  to  give  art  a  rebirth  by  reverting  to 
archaic  beginnings.  Such  artists  deny  all  value 
to  sophistication  and  knowledge,  believing  that 
intellectualisation  tends  to  lead  one  away  from 
profound  emotions.  They  place  spontaneity 
above  analysis,  and  naivete  above  culture:  thus 
they  attempt  to  repudiate  the  development  of 
thought  in  aesthetics.  Their  ideal  is  the  simplic- 
ity of  the  child;  and  therefore,  either  consciously 
or  unconsciously,  they  apotheosise  the  primitive 
artlessness  of  the  early  epochs  in  creative  expres- 
sion.    Stravinsky  and  other  of  the  modern  Rus- 


204  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

sian  composers  (together  with  a  few  ineffectual 
imitators  of  other  nations)  are  substituting  time 
signatures  for  harmonic  and  thematic  scoring  in 
an  endeavour  to  strip  music  of  the  formal  attain- 
ments of  centuries  and  to  make  it  once  more  a 
wholly  rhythmic  art.  Painters,  also,  like  Zak  and 
Rousseau,  are  purging  their  canvases  of  order 
and  sequence,  and  substituting  a  primitive  im- 
agery of  the  most  static  kind.  As  a  result,  a  spu- 
rious revolution  is  noticeable  in  certain  quarters ; 
and  this  revolution  is  hailed  by  a  band  of  unthink- 
ing radicals  as  a  salutary  and  progressive  mani- 
festation. But  progress  in  art  cannot  be  accom- 
plished by  ignoring  the  evolution  of  knowledge. 
Reverting  to  the  nai'f  is  only  begging  a  complex 
question.  Form  in  all  the  arts  has  followed  the 
growth  of  human  consciousness  and  needs ;  and 
the  truly  great  and  progressive  artist  is  the  one 
who,  after  he  has  absorbed  and  mastered  all  the 
learning  which  has  preceded  him,  can  create  new 
forms  in  line  with  that  evolution.  The  composer 
of  the  future  must  be  colossal  enough  to  surpass 
Beethoven:  a  repudiation  of  him  leads  only  to  de- 
cadence. And  the  painter  of  the  future  must  be 
sufficiently  great  to  transcend  Rubens.  Art,  like 
life,  is  a  pushing  forward,  with  the  whole  of  the 
past  as  a  stepping-stone.  The  top  of  the  moun- 
tain will  never  be  reached  by  him  who  deliberately 
seeks  the  lowest  valleys  and  is  content. 


ART  AND  THE  ARTIST  205 

165. 

Art  Communities. — Great  artists  are  never  the 
products  of  the  community  spirit.  In  all  cities 
there  exist  "quarters"  in  which  the  shallow  icono- 
clasts, the  failures  and  the  imitators  congregate 
for  the  purpose  of  exchanging  their  ineffectual 
ideas  and  of  consoling  one  another  for  their  pov- 
erty of  mind.  Such  places  are  the  breeding 
grounds  of  incompetency  and  of  "schools"  of  art. 
The  great  creative  artist  could  not  exist  in  such 
a  milieu.  His  nature  is  necessarily  solitary:  his 
gregariousness  is  only  on  the  surface.  He  has  an 
instinctive  antipathy  to  the  puny  souls  who  need 
companionship  and  support. 

163. 

Hiding  Behind  the  Veil  of  Sanctity. — Only 
the  second-rate  artist  with  a  fuddled  vision  and 
a  vacillating  purpose  resents  a  scientific  discus- 
sion of  his  methods  and  aims.    He  fears  discovery. 

167. 

Tardy  Appreciation  of  Greatness. — The 
great  artist  is  rarely  appreciated  at  once,  for  his 
work  is  the  result  of  years  of  study  and  experi- 
menting; and,  in  order  to  understand  it,  one  must 


206  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

have  followed  the  same  tortuous  and  vicissitudi- 
nous  road. 

168. 

Order  as  Distinguished  from  Graphic  Abil- 
ity.— The  creative,  as  distinguished  from  the 
transcriptive,  artists  of  the  past  placed  models 
before  themselves,  not  for  purposes  of  inspiration, 
but  as  formal  restraints  on  their  expression.  The 
posed  human  body  was  merely  the  material  shape 
through  which  the  order  of  the  artisVs  mind  be- 
came visible.  This  is  why  correct  ("right")  draw- 
ing has  nothing  to  do  with  artistic  ability.  The 
ignorance  of  this  fact  impels  many  painters  and 
draughtsmen  to  continue  their  trade  instead  of 
changing  to  a  more  congenial  one.  These  latter 
men  select  a  model  which  appeals  to  them  physic* 
ally,  and  then  strive  to  portray  it.  Their  work 
results  in  a  more  or  less  sensitive  reaction  to  what 
is  before  their  eyes.  They  are  only  human  mir- 
rors who  have  the  ability  of  setting  down  their 
reflections  on  canvas. 


169. 

Taine's  Debt  to  Balzac. — Undoubtedly 
Taine,  the  profoundest  of  all  critics,  received  the 
inspiration  for  his  outlook  in  the  Philosophie  de 
VArt  from  what  he  saw  in  Balzac's  method  of  ere- 


ART  AND  THE  ARTIST  207 

ating  characters.  His  entire  critical  philosophy- 
is  stated  in  Splendeurs  et  Miseres  des  Courtiscmes, 
It  comes  just  after  the  description  of  La  Tor- 
pille.  *'Les  etres  humakis  prennent-ils  quelque 
chose  aux  milieiur  dans  lesquels  Us  se  development, 
et  gardent-ils  pendant  des  siecles  les  qualites  qu 
Us  en  tirent?  Cette  grande  solution  du  prohleme 
des  races  est  peut-etre  dans  la  question  elle-meTne, 
Les  instincts  sont  des  faits  vivants  dont  la  cause 
git  dans  une  necessite  suhie.  Les  varietes  anv- 
males  sont  le  resultat  de  Vexercice  de  ses  in- 
stincts.'' Incidentally  here  is  proof  that  Balzac 
was  a  conscious  and  analytic  craftsman. 

170. 

Poetry. — The  ability  to  write  great  poetry  is 
an  excellent  preparation  for  the  writing  of  great 
prose.  Indeed,  fundamentally  they  should  be 
synonymous. 

171. 

Tradition. — Unless  we  define  our  use  of  the 
word  "tradition"  we  will  always  be  at  cross-pur- 
poses in  our  discussions  of  art.  Already  there 
has  grown  up  two  schools — the  traditionalists 
and  the  anti-traditionalists.  Conceivably  both  are 
right :  in  fact,  many  critics  belong  to  both  schools 
without   knowing  it.      Tradition   may  mean   two 


208  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

things  according  to  one's  capacity  or  incapacity 
for  deep  thinking.  If  by  tradition  we  connote  the 
fundamental  and  fixed  laws  governing  art — that 
is  to  say,  the  basal  need  for  form,  composition^ 
poise,  and  the  like,  then  all  art  which  is  genuine 
(not  excluding  the  most  modern  and  audacious 
works  of  the  younger  men)  must  adhere  to  tradi- 
tion: it  must  follow  the  principles  to  be  found 
in  the  older  art.  But  if  by  tradition  is  meant 
the  mannerisms  of  art — the  aspect  which  is  the 
result  of  a  certain  age,  then  each  new  step  in 
aesthetic  evolution  has  deliberately  gone  against 
tradition.  Haydn,  and  not  Beethoven,  is  the 
greater  symphonist.  Cimabue,  and  not  Rubens,  is 
the  greater  painter.  All  the  genuine  modern 
painters,  composers  and  writers  are,  in  the  pro- 
founder  definition  of  the  word,  traditional.  They 
abide  by  the  inherent  classicism  of  art. 

172. 

On  Burning  One's  Bridges. — In  art,  as  in  life, 
if  one  aspires  to  innovation,  to  new  and  undis- 
covered heights,  the  safety  of  old  foundations  and 
the  security  of  old  charts  must  be  forgone.  Steps 
must  be  taken  in  the  dark.  Those  who  cling  with 
one  hand  to  the  old  while  groping  toward  the  new 
can  never  reach  their  desires.  High  courage,  im- 
munity to  isolation,  fearlessness  in  the  face  of  the 


ART  AND  THE  ARTIST  20^ 

unknown,  a  belief  in  one's  power  to  find  new  step- 
ping-stones, a  readiness  for  self-sacrifice — only 
with  these  traits  can  one  push  forward  the  bounds 
of  human  knowledge. 


173. 

The  Necessity  of  Exact  Knowledge  in  All 
Creative  Expression. — The  greatest  drawback 
in  the  development  of  art  is  the  antipathy  against 
full  and  precise  knowledge,  which  results  in  an  ig- 
norance of  basic  principles.  Precise  knowledge v^ 
of  one's  own  art  is  necessary  for  even  the  most 
rudimentary  creative  expression.  To  write  liter- 
ature one  must  learn  the  symbols  of  words  and 
must  know  their  exact  connotation  before  they 
can  be  recorded  in  such  a  manner  as  to  convey 
an  idea.  Furthermore  one  must  have  studied  gram- 
matical construction  and  have  observed  life  and 
character  ere  a  story  becomes  homogeneous  and 
intelligible.  The  musical  composer  must  know 
scales,  keys,  tempos,  harmony  and  the  system  of 
scoring ;  otherwise  he  will  not  be  able  to  set  down 
his  composition.  In  painting  it  is  far  easier  to 
produce  even  an  inconsequential  portrait  if  one 
has  exact  knowledge  of  the  formation  of  the  skull ; 
and,  in  any  event,  the  painter  must  be  able  to 
mix  colours  properly  and  to  harmonise  values.  No 
matter  how  fluently,  and  apparently  unconsciously 


210  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

an  artist  may  work,  a  certain  amount  of  precise 
knowledge  must  have  been  acquired  through  pain- 
ful study  and  sure  experience.  But  the  reason  for 
an  artist's  failure  to  attain  to  greatness  lies  in  the 
fact  that  when  he  reaches  this  preliminary  and,  in 
reality,  preparatory  point,  he  ceases  to  study  and 
decries  all  deeper  knowledge,  warning  the  world 
to  beware  of  the  "over-intellectualisation  of  art." 
However,  there  are  some  men  who  delve  into  the 
hidden  recesses  of  psychology,  analyse  the  formal 
compositions  of  past  masters,  invent  new  scales 
and  new  accords  of  sound,  attack  the  literary 
problem  in  a  new  manner,  determine  the  scientific 
reasons  for  aesthetic  reaction,  discover  new  orders 
for  form  and  colour — thus  pushing  forward  the 
existing  boundaries  of  art.  And  their  activities 
do  not  result  in  aesthetic  disintegration.  To  the 
contrary,  their  efforts  lead  to  the  establishing  of 
new  and  higher  laws  which,  in  turn,  lead  to  a 
purer  and  profounder  art.  No  man  who  has  not 
understood  a  fond  the  principles  of  his  prede- 
cessors has  ever  taken  a  forward  step  in  artistic 
procedure.  Strauss  understands  the  orchestra  of 
his  antecedents  as  perhaps  no  other  man  of  to- 
day, and  his  knowledge  of  "classical"  music  is 
profound:  Conrad  studied  and  assimilated  the 
methods  and  achievements  of  Flaubert;  and 
Cezanne  deeply  comprehended  the  Renaissance 
painting  and  Impressionism.     But  Debussy,  with 


ART  AND  THE  ARTIST  211 

his  aversion  for  analytic  precision,  is  a  musician 
of  mere  trivial  novelty:  Zola,  spontaneous  and 
impressionable,  lacks  even  the  slightest  sesthetic 
significance:  and  Bouguereau,  though  more  tal- 
ented than  Cezanne,  holds  only  an  inferior  place 
in  the  world  of  painting.  Without  deep  and  pre- 
cise knowledge  no  artist  can  attain  to  true  great- 
ness. 

174. 

ExPERiMENTAi.  ScHOOLs. — Looking  back  at 
the  experimental  schools  in  art — those  schools 
whose  energies  were  devoted  to  solving  the  minor 
problems  of  realism — we  are  apt  to  regard  them, 
in  the  light  of  profounder  and  more  creative 
schools,  as  manifestations  of  utter  futility.  Who 
now  cares  for  those  meticulous  methods  by  which 
the  minutiae  of  naturalism  can  be  expressed?  Yet 
it  is  by  just  such  self-burials  in  data  that  the  aes- 
thetic possibilities  of  nature's  actualities  are  ex- 
hausted. And  not  until  this  probing  to  the  bot- 
tom has  been  accomplished  does  the  artist  possess 
that  complete  knowledge  which  impels  him  to  push 
forward  to  something  newer  and  more  vital. 

175. 

Personality  in  Art. — It  is  only  during  peri- 
ods of  thin  and  bodiless  art  that  the  criterion  of 


2U  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

"personality"  takes  an  important  place  in  aesthet- 
ic appreciation.  During  the  Renaissance  it  was 
rarely  applied,  but  to-day  it  is  perhaps  more  com- 
mon than  any  other  standard  of  judgment.  Al- 
though the  world  in  late  years  has  produced  sig- 
nificant art,  high  creative  ability  appears  to  be 
the  property  of  only  a  very  few  men  who  have  de- 
tached themselves  entirely  from  their  followers. 
The  imitators  of  Cezanne  and  Matisse,  for  in- 
stance, resemble  their  leaders  only  in  a  most  su- 
perficial manner:  they  seem  unable  to  grasp  the 
deep-lying  principles  of  Cezanne's  and  Matisse's 
work,  and  to  desire  only  to  reproduce  their  orig- 
inal and  novel  appearances.  The  important  dif- 
ference between  one  work  of  art  and  another  lies 
in  just  that  profound  outlook  which  imitators  as 
a  rule  overlook;  and  for  one  who  senses  art  deep- 
ly, tricks  of  technique,  mannerisms,  strange  col- 
ours, or  habits  of  drawing  cannot  obscure  the 
real  impetus  which  drives  a  highly  creative  ar- 
tist to  his  task.  In  order  to  analyse  this  "person- 
ality" in  art  let  us  assume  that  five  men  of  di- 
vergent temperaments  seat  themselves  before  the 
same  model  for  the  purpose  of  giving  birth  to 
what  they  consider  the  true  expression  of  that 
model.  One,  by  a  few  broad  strokes,  will  record 
the  salient  characteristics  of  its  outline,  thereby 
expressing  the  character  of  a  silhouette.  Another 
will  conceive  it  as  a  congeries  of  planes,  and  will 


ART  AND  THE  ARTIST  213 

reproduce  it  by  straight  lines  and  flat  surfaces. 
Still  another  will  paint  it  in  a  freely  impression- 
istic manner,  caring  only  for  the  exaggerations 
and  harmonisings  of  colours.     The  fourth  will  re- 
duce it  to  a  few  essentials,  and  make  it  appear  like 
an  Assyrian  bas-relief.     The  fifth  will  study  its  J 
forms  and  co-ordinate  them  into  a  complete  rhyth-  \ 
mic    composition.      Each    one   of   these   men   will  ^^ 
discover  something  valuable  in  the  model ;  and  yet 
the  first  four  are  children  as  compared  with  the 
fifth.     To  all  five  the  model  appears  exactly  the 
same,  just  as  it  would  look  to  any  one.     The  first 
painter  is  clever  enough  to  grasp  a  certain  ensem- 
ble of  outline  quickly;  but,  after  all,  his  picture 
does  not  give  us  a  linear  character  which  we  are 
unable  to  see  in  the  model  itself.     Even  should  it 
do  this,  of  what  worth  is  it  as  art.^     It  would 
be  valuable  to  us  only  as  a  very  fragmentary  rec- 
ord of  an  inconsequential  fact.     The  second,  by  v^ 
changing  the  model's  rotundities  into  angularities,    \ 
merely  infuses  it  with  a  greater  volumnear  emo-    ) 
tion.     In  this  process  all  colour  and  movement  are 
lost :  the  painter  has  only  succeeded  in  intensifying 
our  feeling  in  the  model's  actual  solidity.      The 
third  accomplishes  merely  a  feat  in  realism:  he 
paints  at  the  top  of  his  voice  where  the  academi- 
cian would  paint  in  a  whisper.     The  fourth,  re- 
verting to  a  simpHfied  vision  which  is  out  of  place 
in  modern  life,  reconstructs  a  primitive  relic  and 


214  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

makes  it  flat.  Each  painter,  in  his  own  way,  strives 
to  catch  what  is  called  the  model-ness  of  the  model, 
to  express  the  very  essence  of  what  is  before  him, 
blinded  to  the  futility  of  reproducing  an  object's 
details  which  are  obvious  to  any  sensitive  ob- 
server. The  fifth  man,  however,  cares  only  for  an 
aesthetic  composition.  When  he  has  finished — al- 
though his  work  may  not  possess  the  salients, 
planes,  colours,  angles,  or  flatness  of  the  model — 
he  has  created  a  genuine  work  of  art.  But  the 
great  majority  of  art  lovers  and  critics,  not  un- 
derstanding his  work  because  of  its  exclusive  con- 
cern with  formal  principles,  will  praise  the  "per- 
sonality" of  the  first  four  and  insist  that  this 
"personality"  reveals  the  true  artist.  This  view- 
point is  mainly  a  sentimental  one.  Of  what  im- 
portance is  an  artist's  character  or  peculiar  angle 
of  vision  if  he  is  incapable  of  creating  pro- 
foundly? Personality,  as  such,  in  art  is  negligi- 
ble. There  is  only  one  test  of  genius,  and  that  is 
that  an  artist  be  able  to  create  a  picture  (not 
merely  reconstruct  a  natural  object)  which  will 
possess  an  intense  life  over  and  above  its  pictorial 
qualities.  Not  until  all  painters,  like  those  few 
leaders  whose  personality  is  secondary,  give  their 
entire  time  to  aesthetic  principles  and  ignore  the 
novelties  and  idiosyncrasies  of  aspect,  will  this 
epoch  take  a  place  beside  the  important  epochs 
of  the  past. 


ART  AND  THE  ARTIST  215 

176. 

The  Signification  or  Static  and  Plastic 
Compositional  Designs. — Angularity  or  immo- 
bility of  design  is  found  in  the  works  of  all  primi- 
tive-minded peoples,  and  is  notably  conspicu- 
ous in  the  early  Egyptians,  the  archaic  Greeks, 
and  the  Assyrians  of  the  eighth  century  b.  c. 
It  is  invariably  the  product  of  the  static  intel- 
ligence into  which  the  comprehension  of  sesthetic 
movement  has  never  entered.  Those  artists  who 
express  themselves  through  it  are  men  whose 
minds  are  incapable  of  grasping  the  rhythmic  at- 
tributes of  profound  composition.  On  the  other 
hand,  mobility  of  design  is  indicative  of  artists 
who  have  attained  to  a  high  degree  of  conscious 
intelligence.  It  represents  a  mind  into  which  a 
plastic  philosophic  conception  of  life  has  en- 
tered. Flowing  movement  was  first  introduced 
into  art  by  the  Greeks ;  and  this  movement  has 
steadily  been  complicated  and  ordered  by  the 
highest  creative  intelligence.  It  is  found  in  all 
great  works,  and  its  empathic  intensity  gives  us 
the  measure  of  their  greatness.  It  is  the  element 
into  which  the  individual  projects  the  rhythms 
of  the  body.  Movement  constitutes  the  very 
consciousness  of  existence,  and,  through  it,  art 
interprets  for  us  the  forces  of  life  according  to 
the  profundity  of  the  artist. 


^16  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

177. 

Perfect  Balance  of  Every  Impulse  Neces- 
sary TO  THE  Artist. — The  day  of  the  belief  in 
the  insanity  of  genius  has  passed.  The  pseudo- 
science  of  Nordau  has  been  refuted  by  pro- 
founder  psychologists ;  and  as  the  true  char- 
acter of  the  creator  becomes  more  and  more  un- 
derstood, the  world  will  gradually  come  to  re- 
alise that  genius  can  be  gauged  by  its  approxima- 
tion to  a  perfectly  poised  sanity — that  art,  in 
fact,  can  result  only  from  a  mind  surely  and 
delicately  balanced.  The  aesthetic  and  philosophic 
principles  underlying  a  great  work  of  formal 
art  can  be  grasped  and  assimilated  only  by  a 
man  who  is  capable  of  plastic  thinking,  that  is, 
of  conceiving  analogies  and  differences  simul- 
taneously. His  thoughts,  when  coming  in  con- 
tact with  the  physical  world,  take  on  a  philo- 
sophic significance;  and  the  art  to  which  they 
give  birth  either  interprets  the  concrete  world 
abstractly  (as  in  literature  and  music),  or  ex- 
presses the  abstract  world  concretely  (as  in  sculp- 
ture and  painting).  In  both  cases  the  result  is 
an  ordered  formal  conception.  In  all  true  genius 
there  is  an  almost  complete  equilibrium,  ps^^cho- 
logical,  ethical,  philosophic,  actional  and  emo- 
tional— an  harmonious  polarity  whose  cycles  of 
thought  never  lose  poise.      Indeed,  it  is  impos- 


ART  AND  THE  ARTIST  217 

sible  for  a  man  who  is  excessive  intellectually, 
emotionally,  or  physically,  to  retain  that  sway- 
ing perpendicularity  of  impulse  which  represents 
the  mean  of  human  fluctuabiHty,  and  which  alone 
results  in  great  and  lasting  creative  achievement. 
Nations  are  subject  to  the  same  laws  as  are  in- 
dividuals; and  the  art  of  a  nation  is  the  only 
perfect  expression  of  its  character,  ideals  and 
history.  Germany,  whose  temperament  is  imper- 
sonal and  whose  education  is  abstract,  has  never 
produced  a  great  visual  art ;  and  Italy,  whose  out- 
look is  personal  and  whose  temperament  is  pre- 
ponderantly physical,  has  never  given  a  pro- 
found philosophical  system  to  the  world.  Only 
when  the  physical  and  the  abstract,  the  personal 
and  the  impersonal,  come  together  in  perfect  con- 
junction in  an  individual  or  a  nation,  can  there 
issue  forth  a  work  of  genius.  A  Leonardo  da 
Vinci  is  too  mental;  a  Corot,  too  emotional.  A 
Michelangelo  combines  the  two  extremes.  Intel- 
lectual analysis  in  such  an  artist  becomes  an  un- 
conscious and  wholly  assimilated  process;  and,  in 
addition,  he  is  able  to  feel  the  underlying  mean- 
ing of  all  images. 

178. 

Greatness  and  Reputations. — One  reason 
why  a  reputation  for  greatness  is  often  withheld 
from  a  man  durinc^  his  life  is  because  so  much 


218  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

of  a  pioneer's  energy  is  spent  in  combating  hos- 
tile criticism  and  indifference  that  his  fund  of 
creative  force  is  depleted.  His  work,  being  nec- 
essarily^ incomplete,  does  not  give  itself  to  the 
spectator  with  force  and  insistence ;  and  the  spec- 
tator, who  is  unable  to  look  beneath  its  incom- 
pleteness, fails  to  recognise  the  new  truths.  The 
credit  for  greatness  first  falls  on  those  men  who, 
availing  themselves  of  the  solutions  of  problems 
accomplished  by  past  reactionaries,  create  finished 
works.  But  later,  when  the  world  has  accepted 
the  new  principles,  the  pioneer  is  crowned  with 
the  bay  leaves  of  posthumous  fame. 

179. 

The  Need  for  Academic  Training. — Of  late 
years  we  have  heard  much  of  the  pernicious  in- 
fluence of  scholastic  training  for  artists.  The 
academies,  we  are  told,  cramp  genius  and  force 
expression  into  set  moulds:  only  untrammelled 
inspiration  can  produce  work  which  is  free  from 
conventional  restraint.  Thus  is  ignorance  turned 
into  a  virtue,  and  laziness  given  the  badge  of 
greatness.  To  deny  the  value  of  academic  in- 
struction is  to  controvert  history,  for  in  all  great 
art  epochs  art  training  was  at  its  height.  Mere 
inspiration  has  never  produced  a  significant  work 
of  art.    No  untrained  man,  however  highly  gifted, 


ART  AND  THE  ARTIST  S19 

has  as  yet  been  able  to  execute  his  vision  ade- 
quately. The  history  of  great  men  in  painting, 
literature  and  music  attests  to  the  necessity  of 
a  profound  objective  education.  Schooling  has 
never  dwarfed  genius :  if  a  man  succumbs  to  aca- 
demic training  it  indicates  an  incompetency  which, 
under  no  circumstances,  could  have  resulted  in 
high  aesthetic  achievement.  By  teaching  restraint, 
order,  precision  and  the  control  of  impulses  the 
school  fits  a  great  man  for  exalted  expression: 
it  makes  possible  his  self-fulfilment  while  weed- 
ing out  the  mediocre.  The  true  artist  needs,  above 
all  else,  self-control.  All  his  faculties  must  be 
under  strict  obedience.  Only  slavish  minds  are 
suppressed  by  discipline.  The  purely  instinctive 
and  inspirational  genius  is  a  myth. 

180. 

The  Superiority  of  Extended  Visions. — The 
extension  of  an  artist's  compositional  vision,  other 
qualities  being  equal,  determines  his  greatness.  A 
musical  composer,  for  instance,  who  writes  a  sym- 
phony in  which  each  minute  part  is  an  intimate 
factor  of  the  whole,  and  in  which  the  four  move- 
ments are  correlated  in  the  larger  rhythmic  sense, 
is  greater  than  the  one  who  writes  a  rondo  whose 
entirety  is  no  greater  than  one  of  the  symphony's 
movements. 


220  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

181. 

The  Inexpressible  in  Art. — In  Goethe's  com- 
ment that  the  finest  achievement  for  men  of 
thought  is  to  have  fathomed  the  fathomable  and 
quietly  to  revere  the  unfathomable,  lies  a  salu- 
tary doctrine  for  those  artists  who  strive,  by 
means  of  mysticism  and  associative  symbols,  to 
express  the  inexpressible.  Failing  in  precise  ses- 
thetic  expression,  these  artists  attempt  the  crea- 
tion of  an  art  which  will  embody,  or  at  least  sug- 
gest, transcendental  qualities  expressive  of  their 
moods  or  momentary  emotional  reactions.  Their 
desire  is  to  transmit  to  the  spectator  the  vague 
personal  impressions  which  have  seized  them  dur- 
ing the  contemplation  of  some  natural  phenome- 
non. Not  only  are  these  obscure  inner  impres- 
sions insusceptible  of  concrete  articulation,  but 
they  are  wholly  personal  and  individual  and  con- 
sequently untranslatable  into  a  common  language. 
They  are  ever  unfathomable  save,  perhaps, 
through  the  means  of  associative  psychology  and 
psycho-analysis.  However,  were  it  possible  to 
transmit  them  to  others  by  arrangements  of  lines, 
colours  or  sounds,  they  would  be  outside  the  range 
of  aesthetic  achievement  unless  conveyed  through 
formal  organisations ;  and,  conveyed  thus,  they 
would  lose  their  associative  appeal.  The  great 
artist  is  the  one  who  devotes  his  efforts  to  de- 


ART  AND  THE  ARTIST  S21 

veloping  his  medium,  to  fathoming  causes,  and 
to  discovering  principles.  He  does  not  concern 
himself  with  emotional  mysteries  which  inhabit 
the  extreme  borderland  of  remote  psychological 
experience. 

182. 

Creative  Struggle  and  Achievement. — For 
one  who  appreciates  art  the  enjoyment  centres 
wholly  in  the  finished  and  perfected  result.  But, 
to  the  artist,  the  result,  as  such,  is  almost  en- 
tirely negligible.  His  chief  pleasure  lies  in  the 
process  of  achievement — the  struggle  accompany- 
ing the  organising  of  forms,  the  creation  of  a 
perfect  equilibrium,  the  co-ordination  of  all  the 
various  factors.  Throughout  the  work,  which  is 
one  of  calm,  cool  and  directive,  but  nevertheless 
intense,  enthusiasm,  he  is  conscious  of  the  joy  of 
absolute  power  over  the  parturition  of  a  new 
and  wonderful  cosmos.  Each  line,  colour,  note 
or  word  is  like  an  individual  character  whose 
life  and  death  are  in  the  artist's  hands,  and  whose 
vicissitudes,  restraints  and  freedom  are  of  the 
artist's  will.  In  all  great  and  profound  aesthetic 
creation  the  artist  is  an  omnipotent  god  who 
moulds  and  fashions  the  destiny  of  a  new  world, 
and  leads  it  to  an  inevitable  completion  where 
it  can  stand  alone,  self-moving,  independent,  and 
with  a  consistency  free  of  all  exterior  help  or  in- 


222  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

fluence.  In  the  fabrication  of  this  cosmos  the 
creator  finds  his  exaltation,  for  he  lives  and  ex- 
periences each  separate  direction  and  volume  and 
rhythm.  And  while  he  always  feels  a  sense  of 
pride  and  exhilaration  as  he  applies  the  final 
touches,  he  also  suffers  disappointment  and  sad- 
ness at  the  thought  that  his  work  is  done  for- 
ever and  no  longer  needs  his  hand. 

183. 

Philosopher  and  Artist. — The  purely  philo- 
sophic and  the  purely  feminine  processes  of 
thought  are  diametrically  opposed.  The  philoso- 
pher deals  with  abstractions,  whereas  feminine 
thought  is  the  direct  result  of  physical  experi- 
ence. Between  these  two  intellectual  antitheses 
stands  the  artist:  he  co-ordinates  the  physical 
world  into  abstractions  of  form. 


184. 

Executants. — Those  musicians  whose  lives  are 
devoted  to  rendering  on  various  instruments  the 
compositions  of  others,  are,  in  reality,  no  differ- 
ent from  those  skilful  painters  whose  business  it 
is  to  make  copies  of  other  men's  pictures.  The 
particular  "interpretation"  of  musical  works, 
which  would  seem  to  constitute  the  superiority  of 


ART  AND  THE  ARTIST  223 

one  performer  over  another,  is,  after  all,  only  a 
personal,  and  therefore  a  minor,  consideration. 
The  form  and  substance  of  the  music  is  not 
altered:  there  is  added  no  aesthetic  quality  which 
would  warrant  the  performer  in  laying  claim  to 
any  creative  abihty.  At  most  he  has  contributed 
a  seasoning  of  personality;  but  to  the  profound 
art-lover  the  personality  of  the  composer,  ex- 
pressed by  types  and  complexities  of  form,  is 
the  only  emotional  concern.  There  is  no  crea- 
tive power,  in  the  highest  sense,  necessary  to  an 
executant.  The  greatest  musical  works  require 
many  performers,  each  one  of  whom  is  but  a  part 
of  the  machine  which  the  artist  has  conceived. 
Professional  performers  are  little  more  than  imi- 
tators living  on  the  reputations  of  the  great. 
When  the  admirable  violinist  Schuppanzigh  com- 
plained of  the  difficulty  in  one  of  Beethoven's 
works,  the  composer  answered  (in  the  third  per- 
son) :  "Does  he  believe  that  I  think  of  a  wretched 
fiddle  when  the  spirit  speaks  to  me  ?" 

185. 

The  Necessity  of  Knowledge  Becoming  In- 
stinctive.— Isolated  knowledge,  in  its  informa- 
tional sense,  is  of  little  value  to  the  creator.  It 
is  of  worth  only  to  a  certain  type  of  theoretical 
educator.     Knowledge,  in  order  to  be  of  service 


224  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

to  the  artist,  must  be  acquired  from  personal  ex- 
perience and  wholly  assimilated  by  repeated  ap- 
plications and  experiments.  In  other  words,  it 
must  become  part  of  his  emotional  equipment,  and 
must  form  the  background  of  his  every  word, 
thought  and  impulse.  This  assimilated  knowl- 
edge is  to  aesthetic  expression  what  the  muscular 
system  is  to  the  human  body :  it  governs  the  form 
and  beauty,  controls  the  directions,  and  super- 
vises the  movements.  Were  more  artists  and 
critics  capable  of  learning  the  principles  of  aes- 
thetic form  and  organisation  and  of  incorpo- 
rating this  knowledge  into  their  very  natures, 
there  would  be  less  adverse  criticism  directed 
toward  aesthetic  precision.  But  the  majority  can 
assimilate  knowledge  only  up  to  an  abecedary 
point.  Beyond  that,  if  they  progress  at  all,  they 
remain  conscious  and  detached  theorists.  A  care- 
ful study  of  the  reasons  why  time  has  conse- 
crated certain  works  of  art  and  why  other  works, 
differing  from  them,  have  been  forgotten,  would 
go  far  toward  increasing  the  artist's  instinctive 
knowledge.  By  this  method  the  student  would 
find  what  quality  great  works  have  in  common, 
and,  by  applying  this  criterion  to  all  works,  he 
would  reach  a  basis  of  comprehensive  knowledge. 
As  a  general  rule,  such  knowledge  is  gathered 
second-hand ;  and  when  an  artist  has  not,  through 
personal    travail,    assimilated    his    learning,    his 


ART  AND  THE  ARTIST  225 

work  is  forced  and  superficial:  it  is  like  an  au- 
tomaton whose  life  is  that  of  a  mechanical  instru- 
ment. Plasticity  and  spontaneity  in  profound 
creative  effort  result  only  from  that  knowledge 
which  has  been  experienced  personally  and  in- 
filtrated into  the  very  fibres  of  consciousness. 

186. 

Merits  and  Demerits  of  Eclecticism. — 
Every  artist  who  eventually  achieves  greatness 
passes  at  some  time  in  his  early  development 
through  a  period  of  sedulous  eclecticism;  and  his 
future  is  determined  by  his  thoroughness  dur- 
ing this  hazardous  period  and  by  the  intelligent 
manner  in  which  he  incorporates  into  his  own 
art  the  solutions  of  problems  relative  to  him- 
self. In  the  serious  and  genuine  artist  this  im- 
pulse toward  imitation  grows  out  of  a  need  for 
self-revelation:  he  increases  his  power,  and  at 
last  discovers  his  individual  destiny.  The  ab- 
sence of  all  desire  to  measure  ore's  budding 
strength  against  the  strong  men  who  have  H^bme 
before  is  indicative  of  the  self-satisfi'Ld  i^'fioiance 
of  the  sesthetically  incompetent.  "Schooij"  of  art 
are  made  up  of  men  whose  limited  understandings 
have  halted  them  on  the  hither  side  of  high  at- 
tainment. Even  in  the  case  of  infevior  men  th?-, 
imitative  impulse  is  beneficial,  for  it' directs  theiV" 


226  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

efforts  toward  profound  problems  •which  soon 
engulf  them,  thus  leaving  the  field  clear  for  the 
few.  On  the  other  hand,  eclecticism  has  its  bale- 
ful influences.  It  often  serves  as  an  excuse  for 
analogies  on  the  part  of  influential  critics  and, 
as  a  result,  attracts  the  public  eye  from  an  ar- 
tist's true  significance.  It  sometimes  leads  to  a 
wide-spread  mediocrity,  as  in  the  case  of  the  Car- 
racci.  It  not  seldom  establishes  a  false  standard 
of  values  by  obscuring  the  real  aims  of  an  art 
movement.  And  it  tends  to  give  false  ideas  of 
completeness  to  art  students  who  are  retarded 
in  their  development  by  trying  to  find  the  line  of 
a  Veronese  around  the  colour  of  a  Cezanne,  or  the 
greys  of  the  Japanese  on  the  compositions  of  a 
Rubens. 

187. 

The  Requisite  Balance  of  the  Artist. — The 
artist  is  a  man  in  whom  the  will  to  create  and 
the  ability  to  feel  are  perfectly  poised. 

::ji:^       '    *         isa 

Th,e -.  Revival  of  Composition. — ^After  the 
,(5piossal  strides  made  by  the  Renaissance  masters 
a  reaction  set  in.  Painters  became  apathetic  in 
.face ^ojF  nature;  and  their  inability  to  create  new 
fomis   swept  away   all  aesthetic   and   philosophic 


ART  AND  THE  ARTIST  227 

knowledge  of  composition  in  both  painting  and 
sculpture.  Graphic  art  became  mainly  a  series 
of  dramatic  events  depicted  with  no  thought  of 
related  parts  or  underlying  rhythm:  it  was  en- 
tirely pictorial.  Not  until  the  advent  of  Dela- 
croix was  there  a  conscious  effort  at  its  rehabili- 
tation ;  and  his  canvases  were,  for  the  most  part, 
based  on  some  simple  formal  plan  of  past  mas- 
ters. But  the  art  world  was  passing  through 
a  great  upheaval  of  realism:  it  was  becoming 
emancipated  from  traditional  tenets ;  and  it  was 
not  until  the  influence  of  Cezanne  was  felt  that 
the  idea  of  composition  again  took  hold  of  the 
artist's  mind.  To  this  man  of  Italian  antece- 
dents is  attributable  the  modern  impetus  toward 
the  profounder  problems  of  art.  He  it  was  who 
sensed  the  all-encompassing  importance  of  com- 
position. By  studying  ancient  masterpieces  and 
expressing  his  rediscoveries  by  the  new  methods, 
he  became  the  bridge  which  joined  the  nineteenth 
century  with  the  Renaissance.  Always  there  had 
existed  in  painting  a  surface  balance  of  parts ; 
but  it  was  Cezanne  who  ushered  in  a  new  cycle 
of  subjective  rhythmic  order. 

189. 

Artist  and  Public. — ^Artists  whose  works  pos- 
sess a  new  and  unfamiliar  aspect  often  complain 


^28  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

of  the  public's  indifference  and  its  inability  to 
recognise  their  talents.  But  in  so  doing  they 
both  underestimate  themselves  and  overestimate 
the  public.  Such  men  should  realise  that,  since 
their  lives  are  devoted  to  one  line  of  endeavour, 
they  progress  aesthetically  much  more  rapidly 
than  the  public  which  has  only  leisure  moments 
in  which  to  enjoy  art.  Should  the  pubhc,  with 
its  limited  time  for  art,  advance  in  its  ideas  as 
rapidly  as  the  artist,  with  his  full  time,  it  would 
attest  to  the  artist's  inferiority.  Certain  crea- 
tors even  insist  that  the  public  should  purchase 
art  works  on  the  authority  of  others.  But  is  it 
not  the  natural  instinct  of  man  to  invest  in  those 
pleasures  which  are  immediate  and  understand- 
able.? The  artist  does  not  invest  in  things  he 
neither  desires  nor  cares  for;  why  should  he  de- 
mand that  others  support  him  merely  because  of 
his  serious  purpose.''  The  world  has  never  been 
interested  in  serious  intentions  as  such.  It  de- 
sires pleasurable  and  comprehensible  amusements ; 
and  these  the  sincere  artist  cannot  supply.  Iso- 
lation and  neglect  are  the  price  which  innova- 
tors must  pay  for  the  ecstasy  of  high  achieve- 
ment. 

190. 

The  "Radical's"  Place  in  Art. — Radicalism 
in  art  is  generally  the  accompaniment  of  the  man 


ART  AND  THE  ARTIST  229 

who  has  profound  feelings,  a  great  enthusiasm,  a 
high  ambition,  and  a  meagre   ability.      He   feels 
the  need  for  progress,  for  rebellion  against  a  vi- 
tiated academism,  for  a  cessation  of  decadent  imi- 
tation; but  his  intense  and  feverish  energies  are, 
for  the  most  part,  wasted  on  the  discovery  of  a 
new  and  isolated  problem.     Usually  he  appears 
in  the  first   stage  of  a  new  renaissance   of  defi- 
nitely directed  art  effort.     He  creates  dissatisfac- 
tion with  the  old,  but  himself  accomplishes  little 
that  is  new.     His  place  in  art  is  like  that  of  the 
wrecker  who  tears  down  an  old  edifice,  but  who 
is  incapable  of  rebuilding.     Like  all  extremists, 
he  wants    a   definite   yea   or   nay,   forgetting,   in 
his  enthusiasm,  that  the  foundations   of  art  are 
deeply  human  and  that  only  through  the  travail 
of  time  can  vital  changes  come  about.     He  over- 
looks all  logic,  and  pushes   simple  syllogisms  to 
fantastic  conclusions.     By  the  world  at  large  the 
radical  is  regarded  either  as  a  prophet  or  a  mad- 
man.    But,  in  reality,  he  is  neither :  he  represents 
merely  the  seeker  who  finds  the  cobwebs  of  tradi- 
tion and  age.     Those  genuine  artists  who  accom- 
plish    significant     changes     build     on     tradition, 
ascending  the  heights  as  one  would  climb  a  lad- 
der.    There  is  another  type  of  radical,  but  this 
one  is  even  less  significant  than  the  first.     He  is 
the  unobserving  imitator,  hailing  all  new  achieve- 
ment,  and   following  blindly   the   steps   of   truly 


230  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

great  innovators.  Thus  are  men  of  genius  always 
preceded  and  followed  by  retainers,  one  group  an- 
nouncing his  entry,  the  other  crying  his  praises. 

191. 

The  Individuality  of  Artists. — The  individu- 
alities, or  personalities,  of  artists  are  of  small 
moment.  A  painter's,  or  writer's,  or  musician's 
temperament  can  dictate  but  two  phases  of  vari- 
ation: it  can  select  the  material  he  is  to  use  in 
his  composition,  and  it  can  supply  superficial 
qualities  such  as  joy  or  sorrow,  comedy  or  trag- 
edy. All  true  aesthetic  considerations — form,  bal- 
ance, rhythm,  poise — spring  from  profounder 
depths  in  a  man's  nature  than  those  which  con- 
tain his  temperamental  predilections.  Despite  the 
many  divergencies  of  common  tastes,  mankind  is, 
after  all,  so  similar  in  his  mechanistic  reactions 
that  one  artist's  deviations  from  another  are  un- 
important. The  true  test  of  an  artist's  genius 
is  not  his  strength  or  fascination  of  personality, 
but  his  ability  to  organise.  The  greater  he  is  as 
an  organiser — no  matter  what  his  individual  pre- 
dispositions— the  more  exalted  he  is  as  an  artist. 
The  compositional  figure  on  which  he  builds  will 
alone  give  us  the  substance  of  his  character.  This 
figure  is  a  direct  expression  of  his  basic  nature, 
and  reveals,  as  no  other  evidence,  the  depth   of 


ART  AND  THE  ARTIST  231 

his  philosophical  viewpoint.  By  it  we  may  often 
determine,  beyond  question,  disputed  authorship. 
Personal  likes  and  dishkes  for  subjects,  actions, 
moods,  smells  and  the  like  are  but  outgrowths 
of  instincts — ^habits  of  psychic  association.  They 
are  in  the  main  psycho-physiological,  never 
fundamental;  and  their  importance  is  limited  to 
the  individual  experiencing  them.  Being  largely 
the  result  of  receptivity,  they  have  nothing, 
basically,  to  do  with  aesthetic  expression,  which  is 
pure  creation. 

192. 

The  Source  op  Individuality. — The  apotheo- 
sising  of  individuality  in  creative  expression  be- 
gan at  that  time  when  all  artists  were  called 
upon  to  depict  the  same  exalted,  vague  and  im- 
aginary legend  or  character  or  story.  When 
the  work  was  completed  those  members  of  so- 
ciety whose  knowledge  and  taste  gave  them  a 
place  of  critical  importance,  would  pass  on  the 
merits  of  the  numerous  pictures  exhibited,  and 
would  award  the  honours  to  that  artist  who  had 
approached  nearest  to  the  layman's  criterion  of 
the  supposed  truth  or  beauty  or  power  of  the 
subject.  As  a  result,  the  inventiveness  which 
the  honoured  artist  alone  possessed,  and  which 
was  his  own  personal  and  individual  attribute, 
became  the  quality  of  greatness,  and  transcended 


THE  CREATIVE  WILL 


iechnical  ability  and  balance,  although  these  lat- 
ter qualities  may  have  been  superior  in  the  works 
of  others.  So-called  individuality,  therefore, 
rests  on  a  utilitarian,  not  an  aesthetic,  basis.  We 
find  it*  at  its  zenith  in  periods  following  great 
florescences,  when  the  original  inspiration  is  mori- 
bund, and  in  those  chaotic  and  experimental  times 
when  no  great  genius  arises  to  direct  all  aesthetic 
efforts  into  one  channel. 


193. 

Modernism. — Modernism  in  art  is  often  con- 
sidered the  result  of  subject-matter.  A  painter 
depicting  dreadnoughts  or  a  poet  singing  of  sky- 
scrapers is  regarded  as  modern.  But  this  is 
not  modernism  in  art:  it  is  modernism  only  of 
theme.  The  modern  artist  is  one  who  makes 
use  of  the  latest  refinements  and  researches  in 
his  medium,  and  who  builds  on  all  the  technical 
discoveries  which  have  preceded  him.  Methods, 
and  not  content,  determine  the  modernism  of  an 
artist. 

194. 

Apotheosising  Technique. — During  modern 
times  technical  dexterity  has  done  much  to  ob- 
scure the  real  value  of  art.  The  most  mediocre 
of  men  can,  by  patience  and  practice,  attain  to 


ART  AND  THE  ARTIST  233 

a  high  degree  of  craftsmanship.  The  great  ar- 
tist is  often  too  absorbed  in  the  deeper  problems 
of  aesthetics  to  acquire  the  perfected  ability  of 
second-rate  men  to  whom  cleverness  is  the  chief 
concern.  Unfortunately  this  carefully  cultivated 
brilliance  of  execution  arouses  the  admiration  of 
the  semi-educated  spectator;  and  the  highly  ef- 
ficient craftsman  is  raised  at  once  to  the  rank 
of  greatness.  Fame  has  thus  been  accorded  to 
the  slightly  artistic  performer  whose  superficial 
dexterity  has  succeeded  in  astonishing  the  on- 
looker. Velazquez,  Raphael  and  Manet  have, 
therefore,  usurped  the  places  which,  by  true  aes- 
thetic standards,  belong  to  Goya,  Giorgione  and 
Cezanne. 

195. 

Mediocrity  and  Greatness. — The  distance  be- 
tween mediocrity  and  greatness  in  art  is  very 
slight.  The  mediocre  man  may  approach  closely 
to  the  colour,  poise  and  order  of  the  great  man — 
so  closely,  in  fact,  that  to  the  casual  spectator  or 
auditor  he  seems  to  have  arrived  at  his  goal;  but 
he  never  bridges  that  lacuna  which  separates  a 
precise  art  from  one  which  is  a  peu  pres.  And  it 
is  this  last  delicate  refinement  of  perfect  harmony 
which  the  true  genius  possesses  and  which  his  imi- 
tators do  not  completely  attain  to,  that  places  him 
in  the  exalted  rank  of  greatness. 


234  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

196. 

Characteristics  of  Novelty. — In  many  phases 
of  modern  art — painting,  music  and  literature — 
can  be  detected  the  attitude  of  the  ardent  vision- 
ary who,  when  contemplating  an  aesthetic  novelty, 
desires  to  carry  it  to  even  greater  extremes.  In 
such  an  attitude  youthful  enthusiasm  plays  a 
large  part:  it  is  indicative  of  that  unorganised 
emotionalism  which  precedes  the  calm  and  mas- 
terly self-control  so  imperative  to  genuine  crea- 
tion. In  no  instance  has  it  led  to  significant  re- 
sults. The  superficial  characteristics  of  great 
artists  are,  as  a  rule,  no  more  startling  than  those 
of  lesser  men. 

197. 

The  Dance  in  Graphic  and  Plastic  Art. — 
Superficial  artists,  from  earliest  antiquity  to  the 
present  day,  have  been  interested  in  action  and 
brilliance.  Such  men  love  life  more  than  art, 
and  their  created  works  have  been  largely  an  at- 
tempt to  record  impressions.  It  is  natural,  there- 
fore, that  the  dance,  with  its  colour,  grace,  and 
flowing  movement,  should  have  attracted  them.  In 
the  pictures  and  statues  of  all  second-rate  artists 
we  find  objective  portrayals  of  dancing  figures. 
These  artists,  failing  to  understand  the  princi- 
ples of  aesthetic  movement,  record  only  that  ac- 


ART  AND  THE  ARTIST  235 

tional  segment  of  the  dance  which  epitomises  a 
cycle  of  movement ;  and,  as  a  result,  their  pictures 
are  little  more  than  ornaments  or  arabesques. 
But  with  great  artists  the  dance,  if  used  at  all, 
becomes  arbitrary — an  ornament  of  an  ensemble. 
Michelangelo  found  no  inspiration  in  it;  and  in 
Greece  it  was  the  potters,  not  the  great  sculptors, 
who  depicted  it.  The  Hokusais  of  Japan  ignored 
it,  whereas  the  smaller  men  seized  upon  it  eagerly. 
Always  it  is  the  feminine  talents  who  select 
it  as  a  representative  subject.  The  reason  lies 
in  the  fact  that  the  dance  possesses  largely  an 
illustrative  and  decorative  appeal:  it  furnishes  a 
basis  for  pattern,  not  for  profound  organisation. 

198. 

The  Seer. — The  seer  in  art  is  the  man  whose 
accurate  perspective  (resulting  from  profound 
and  impersonal  knowledge)  permits  him  a  uni- 
versal vision  of  art's  multiple  impulses,  and 
whose  ability  enables  him  to  direct  these  im- 
pulses toward  a  unified  achievement. 

199. 

The  Plastic  Mind. — The  plastic  mind  is  the 
mind  which,  instead  of  approaching  a  problem 
from  the  nearest  side,  throws  itself  automatically 


236  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

to  the  opposite  side,  and,  by  thus  obtaining  a 
double  approach,  arrives  at  a  fuller  comprehen- 
sion. This  mental  plasticity  is  an  attribute  of 
the  feminine  side  of  the  artist.  In  women  it 
is  called  intuition,  and  having  no  positive  and 
constructive  will  to  guide  it,  it  is  of  no  intellectual 
surety. 


IV 
ART  AND  THE  INDIVIDUAL 


200. 

The  Opponents  of  Knowledge. — In  art  mat- 
ters the  ignorant  fear,  above  all  things,  precision. 
They  instinctively  resent  explanation.  They 
thrive  only  in  a  milieu  of  inexactitude.  They  de- 
mand that  their  own  bad  taste,  prejudice  and 
sentimental  preference  be  left  inviolate  against 
the  intrusion  of  exact  knowledge.  By  constantly 
discouraging  all  investigation  and  experimenta- 
tion they  hope  to  maintain  an  artistic  standard 
based  on  their  ignorant  eclecticism.  Hence  their 
apotheosis  of  taste — their  taste;  and  their  an- 
tagonism toward  the  science  of  aesthetics.  The 
more  resourceful  and  educated  opponents  of  art 
knowledge  point  to  the  fact  that  Wagner  was 
proved  a  violator  of  artistic  canons,  that  Bee- 
thoven broke  contrapuntal  laws,  and  that  Schoen- 
berg's  harmonics  are  irregular.  Are  these  things, 
they  ask,  not  enough  to  make  one  sceptical  of 
aesthetic  discussion  and  to  prove  the  futility  of 
aesthetic  theorising?  The  question,  however,  is 
a  non  sequitur.  The  science  of  aesthetics  is  here 
confused,  either  through  ignorance  or  with  in- 
tent, with  minor  rules  of  harmony  and  counter- 
point.    Furthermore,  the  science  of  aesthetics  is 

239 


240  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

not  a  theory  founded  on  an  uncertain  hypothesis. 
It  is  a  method  of  determining  the  relationship 
between  accepted  facts,  and  is  founded  on  recog- 
nisable and,  in  the  majority  of  cases,  simple  phe- 
nomena. The  popular  assumption  that  art  and 
its  reactions  are  a  mystical  and  esoteric  process 
insusceptible  of  scientific  analysis  and  unrelated 
to  psychology  and  physiology  is  no  more  than  a 
relic   of   cabalistic   superstition. 


201. 

Perception  a  Co-ordination  of  Sensations. 
— The  process  of  perceiving  a  work  of  art  con- 
sists in  relating  the  various  sensations  produced 
by  its  many  individual  factors.  Such  a  process 
requires  an  active  participation  of  the  mind.  In 
the  simpler  and  more  obvious  forms  of  art  it 
can  be  accomplished  by  those  of  primitive  men- 
tahty,  as  in  pictures  where  the  objects  are  easily 
recognisable  and  have  no  subtle  tone  qualities, 
or  in  literature  where  the  document  is  wholly 
objective  and  the  action  mainly  physical,  or  in 
music  wherein  the  homophonic  style  of  writing 
is  adhered  to.  But,  in  the  more  complex  types 
of  art,  preparation  and  study  are  necessary  for 
complete  perception.  That  is  why  the  purer 
works  of  art  are  beyond  the  reach  of  the  many. 
Unable  to  generate  a  process  of  perception,  they 


ART  AND  THE  INDIVIDUAL        24.1 

react  only  to  the  various  sensational  elements  of 
an  art  work.  The  effect  of  the  work  upon 
them  is  heterogeneous.  It  is  confused — a  hotch- 
potch: that  is,  the  numerous  sensations  have  not 
undergone  a  co-ordination.  Music,  then,  is  to 
them  cacophony — a  series  of  unrelated  sounds — 
a  "noisy  tumult."  A  picture  is  a  congeries  of 
colours — "an  assault  upon  the  optic  nerves."  A 
piece  of  literature  is  senseless — "a  jumble  of 
words."  But  the  person  who  is  highly  sensitised 
and  trained  in  sesthetic  problems  is  affected  in 
no  such  manner.  He  is  capable  of  perceiving  the 
complex  relationships  of  the  numerous  sensations 
in  an  advanced  art  work,  and  consequently  he  re- 
acts pleasurably  to  the  unity  of  the  form. 


Abii^ity  to  Understand  Art. — It  is  impossi- 
ble completely  to  understand  a  master  artist 
unless  one  has  progressed  as  far  in  some  art  as 
the  master  has  in  his  own.  The  gods  do  not  give 
the  greatest  ecstasy  to  one  who  has  not  worked 
for  it.  It  is  only  the  ignorant  who  assume  that 
it  is  possible  for  them  to  scale  the  heights  without 
effort.  Would  you  dare  assert  that  Beethoven 
did  not  understand  and  feel  the  music  that  pre- 
ceded him  far  better  than  any  other  man  of  his 
epoch? 


THE  CREATIVE  WILL 


Two  Types  of  Art  Philosopher. — In  all  the 
arts  there  are  two  kinds  of  philosophers.  On 
the  one  hand,  there  are  the  men  who,  during 
mental  excursions,  come  upon  knotty  problems 
and  attack  them,  endeavouring  thus  to  gain  a 
deeper  insight  into  art  and  life.  These  men  can- 
not rest  until  they  have  traced  a  problem  to  its 
inception  and  have  related  its  solution  to  all  the 
other  knowledge  they  possess.  These  are  the 
precise  thinkers  out  of  whose  activities  has  grown 
all  progress  in  every  line  of  human  endeavour. 
They  are  the  creative,  constructive  minds  whose 
conclusions,  like  stairways,  make  it  possible  for 
their  followers  to  attain  to  even  greater  heights. 
On  the  other  hand,  there  are  the  symbolists  and 
mystics  who  merely  feel  that  life  is  a  result  of 
profound  and  obscure  forces,  and  who  clothe 
their  visions  in  heavy  veils  of  rhetoric.  They 
pose  as  the  seers  and  mediums  of  mysteries,  and 
would  have  you  believe  that  they  have  touched 
life  so  nearly  at  its  source  that  explanation  or 
solution  is  beyond  the  grasp  of  finite  minds.  These 
are  the  men  incapable  of  sequential  thinking. 
Consequently  they  preach  "divine  inspiration," 
aesthetic  supernaturalism,  intuition  and  symbol- 
ogy.  When  we  consider  that  the  great  majority 
of    people    are    wholly    incapable    of    analytic 


ART  AND  THE  INDIVIDUAL        243 

thought,  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  this  lat- 
ter class  of  teachers  passes  for  the  profound 
thinkers,  while  those  who  make  specific  additions 
to  the  world's  storehouse  of  knowledge  are  looked 
upon  as  superficial  materialists.  To  the  influence 
of  such  teachers,  who  prey  upon  the  religious 
impulses  of  the  general,  is  attributable  the  fact 
that  the  science  of  aesthetics  has  made  so  little 
progress.  In  art  they  are  the  Maeterlincks,  the 
Mallarmes,  the  Moreaus,  the  Carrieres,  the 
Boecklins,  the  Debussys  and  the  Moussorgskys. 

204. 

The  Superficial  Judgment. — Art,  having  a 
trivial  as  well  as  a  profound  side,  results  in  an 
illiterate  person  believing,  with  sublime  and  un- 
conscious egoism,  that  he  is  able  to  see  all  there 
is  in  it,  and  in  scoffing  at  those  who  proclaim 
to  have  found  something  of  which  he  is  unaware. 

205. 

The  Practicai.  and  the  ^Esthetic  View- 
point.— In  contemplating  an  object,  there  are  two 
main  viewpoints  from  which  it  may  be  approached 
— the  practical  and  the  aesthetic.  The  former 
viewpoint  regards  it  as  a  fact,  an  object  in  it- 
self, fraught  with  possibilities,  reactions,  suscep- 


244  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

tibilities  and  the  like.  The  latter  viewpoint  sees 
only  the  aspect  of  the  object — its  appearance  un- 
der the  conditions  existent  at  the  moment  of  con- 
templation, its  relationship  with  other  objects, 
its  method  of  presentation,  its  superficial  charac- 
teristics as  a  visual  thing.  This  viewpoint  de- 
mands only  that  the  object  give  momentary  pleas- 
ure or  satisfaction,  and  is  unrelated  to  either 
causes  or  effects,  or,  for  that  matter,  to  reality 
itself.  Thus  to  one  who  views  an  object  aestheti- 
cally, it  is  not  necessary  even  that  the  object  be 
the  actual  thing  it  appears  to  be.  If  a  flower,  it 
may  be  wax,  provided  the  colours  and  lines  of 
it  are  pleasing:  if  a  tree,  it  may  be  papier  mache, 
so  long  as  its  appearance  gives  pleasure.  Illusion 
does  not  detract  from  one  who  regards  life  aes- 
thetically. But  in  the  practical  man  the  au- 
thenticity of  the  object  viewed  is  primarily  neces- 
sary. He  is  interested,  not  in  the  object's  as- 
pect, but  in  its  material  potentialities.  He  ques- 
tions the  character  of  the  tree,  its  manner  of 
growth,  its  age,  its  availability  as  building  ma- 
terial. In  short,  he  demands  truth.  The  other 
man  demands  only  beauty.  Here  we  have  a  defi- 
nition of  art  in  relation  to  truth.  Beauty  and 
truth  are  not  synonymous.  An  object  is  not  beau- 
tiful in  itself.  Its  beauty  lies  wholly  in  its  as- 
pect, which  may  be  a  lie  to  the  man  who  views 
nature  practically. 


ART  AND  THE  INDIVIDUAL        Mo 

206. 

Chacun  a  Son  Gout. — What  of  the  sentiment 
in  art?  jou  ask.  What  of  the  ecstasy  of  sweet 
association,  the  thrill  of  dramatic  suspense,  and 
the  pleasure  of  recognition?  In  answer  let  me 
point  out  that  if  3^ou  go  to  art  for  such  things 
it  is  not  necessary  to  go  to  the  greatest  art. 
Tschaikovsky  can  draw  more  tears  than  Bee- 
thoven :  Victor  Hugo  is  more  excitatory  than  Bal- 
zac :  Raphael  is  more  charming  than  Rubens.  For 
such  people  there  is  always  the  "art"  of  the  drama 
— that  bourgeois  amusement.  And  for  the  semi- 
intellectual  there  is,  of  course,  the  opera. 

207. 

Relation  Between  Reaction  and  the  Sci- 
ence OF  ^Esthetics. — The  science  of  aesthetics, 
which  is  founded  on  personal  responsiveness  and 
feeling,  can  be  understood  by  an  individual  only 
up  to  that  point  where  he  ceases  to  react  emo- 
tionally to  a  work  of  art.  Unlike  other  sciences 
which  deal  with  nature's  manifestations  objec- 
tively, the  aesthetic  science  cannot  be  pursued  by 
pure  reasoning  or  by  empiric  research.  No 
amount  of  experimentation  or  logic  can  make  one 
accept  a  work  of  art  as  great  unless  one  can 
simultaneously  feel  that  that  work  is  great.    Thus 


246  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

can  we  account  for  the  divergent  opinion  of 
critics  regarding  a  complicated  composition.  One 
may  hold  that  it  is  powerful  and  emotionally  ef- 
ficacious; another  that  it  is  impotent  and  mean- 
ingless. And  so  the  fallacy  of  "J^  gustibus  non 
est  disputandum''^  is  given  weight.  But  what  is 
the  truth  of  the  matter?  Simply  this:  The 
emotionally  limited  critic  denies  the  inherent  ex- 
istence of  aesthetic  beauty  in  a  work  unless  he  is 
personally  capable  of  reacting  to  it,  and  at  the 
same  time  questions  the  sincerity  of  the  man  who 
responds  as  the  result  of  a  more  highly  developed 
sensitivity.  For  the  meagrely  equipped  critic  the 
science  of  aesthetics  is  useless:  it  is  without  the 
substantiation  of  emotional  experience.  This  non- 
responsiveness  in  aesthetically  deficient  natures 
constitutes  the  chief  obstacle  in  the  way  of  the 
science  of  organised  form;  for  all  aesthetic  theo- 
ries cease  with  the  emotional  limitations  of  the 
individual. 

208. 

Recognisability  as  an  Art  Basis. — Persons 
halted  on  the  hither  side  of  abstract  aesthetic  emo- 
tion are  prone  to  seek  in  objective  nature  an  ex- 
planation for  their  inability  to  appreciate  art  in 
which  the  recognisable  object  is  absent.  Incapa- 
ble, because  of  a  sentimental  or  unrobust  nature, 
to  divest  themselves  of  the  minor  associative  and 


ART  AND  THE  INDIVIDUAL        247 

literary  emotions,  and  unable  to  record  a  purely 
aesthetic  sensation,  they  hope  to  find  an  explana- 
tion for  their  responsive  shortcomings  in  the 
many  phases  of  recognisability.  At  once  the  prob- 
lem of  aesthetics  appears  hopelessly  fuddled  and 
contradictory.  But  the  truth  is  that  what  they 
mistake  for  aesthetic  complexities  are  incidents  on 
the  road  to  the  higher  appreciation,  and  that, 
when  the  intense  sesthetic  emotion  is  arrived  at, 
the  lesser  associative  pleasures  are  crowded  out 
and  left  far  behind.  It  is  natural,  however,  for 
a  man  whose  higher  aesthetic  responsiveness  is 
limited  to  attribute  undue  importance  to  the  in- 
cidentals of  art,  and  to  judge  that  a  theory  of 
aesthetics  which  has  superseded  them  is  lacking  in 
adequacy. 

209. 

The  Reticence  of  Beauty. — There  is  no  such 
thing  as  spontaneous  beauty.  There  can  be  a 
pleasurable  sensation  transmitted  to  us  instan- 
taneously; but  beauty,  which  is  the  assimilation 
of  form,  either  auditorily  (as  with  music),  or  ocu- 
larly (as  with  painting),  or  mentally  (as  with 
literature),  reveals  itself  only  after  a  process  of 
activity  and  a  series  of  mental  and  physical  ad- 
justments. There  is  time  extension  implied  in 
all  aesthetic  experiences ;  and  it  is  never  safe  to 
judge  an  art  work  by  one  view  or  hearing.     Our 


248  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

cock-sure  modern  critics  (whose  names  would  fill 
this  page)  presume  to  pass  judgment  on  the 
basis  of  the  most  cursory  observation,  the  un- 
spoken theory  being  that  true  beauty  gives  itself 
to  the  beholder  immediately.  This  point  of  view 
is  an  illiterate  one,  and  is  allied  to  the  theory 
that  explanations  are  not  needed  for  true  art. 
The  perception  of  beauty,  however,  necessitates 
a  process  of  organising  various  factors ;  and  this 
process  includes  a  registering  of  relationships  and 
differences,  physical  adjustments  and  readjust- 
ments, a  tracing  of  sequential  lines  of  form,  a 
concentration  and  shifting  of  attention,  an  ex- 
ercise of  memory  which  results  in  projections  and 
throw-backs,  muscular  activities,  a  drawing  up  of 
a  series  of  tensions,  and  their  accompanying  re- 
laxations. It  is  almost  safe  to  say  that  the  greater 
the  beauty  the  longer  time  it  requires  to  recognise 
it  and  to  react  to  it.  Many  of  the  greatest 
pieces  of  art  reveal  themselves  to  us  only  after 
days  and  sometimes  weeks  of  study. 

210. 

Sensational  and  Perceptive  Art. — All  works 
of  art  are  either  sensational  or  perceptive.  That 
is,  they  either  affect  us  immediately,  thrusting 
themselves  upon  our  passivity  like  a  perfume,  a 
colour  or  a  single  musical  note,  and  are  communi- 


ART  AND  THE  INDIVIDUAL        249 

cated  to  our  brains  through  our  nervous  mecha- 
nism; or  else  they  hold  our  attention  and  produce 
in  us  a  process  of  contemplation,  making  us  con- 
scious of  various  relations  of  forms,  colours  and 
sounds.  Thus  a  picture  painted,  let  us  say,  in 
a  series  of  blues,  with  the  outlines  blurred — a 
picture  in  which  there  is  a  unity,  not  of  aesthetic 
form  but  of  effect — will  produce  in  us  a  single 
impression  or  sensation.  The  subject-matter  and 
the  forms  are  so  dominated  by  the  sensational 
aspect  of  one  colour  or  tone  that  they  cease  to 
function  or  impose  themselves  upon  us  at  first 
glance.  And  a  piece  of  music,  by  the  constant 
repetition  of  one  note,  or  the  continuous  tapping 
on  a  single  kettle-drum,  may  affect  us,  not  as  a 
melody  with  form  and  variations,  but  as  a  tone 
which  will  (according  to  its  placement  and  timbre) 
depress  or  elate  us.  Likewise  a  piece  of  litera- 
ture, by  the  use  of  certain  sonorous  words  and 
the  insistence  on  an  idea  (document  being  the  cor- 
responding literary  element  to  colour  and  sound), 
may  produce  in  us  a  specific  and  unified  sensa- 
tion, as  do  the  tales  of  Poe,  for  example.  In 
all  such  works  there  exists  no  aesthetic  value.  They 
are  primitive,  slightly  removed,  in  the  artistic 
sense,  from  the  music  of  the  tomtom.  The  at- 
tribute of  form  is  nullified;  and  without  form 
there  can  be  no  art  in  the  aesthetic  sense.  On 
the  other  hand,  there  is  perceptive  art — the  art 


250  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

which,  by  diversifying  the  constituents  of  the  me- 
dium, leads  to  contemplation.  Such  art  cannot 
be  grasped  at  once.  No  one  colour  predominates 
to  such  an  extent  as  to  make  the  other  colours 
negligible:  no  one  note  is  repeated  so  that  all  the 
other  sounds  in  the  gamut  become  a  mere  back- 
ground of  confused  and  neutralised  sound:  no 
one  idea  is  emphasised  to  the  point  where  the 
document  is  brought  to  a  minute  focus.  Instead, 
there  is  a  balance  of  parts,  an  interdependent  re- 
lationship of  all  the  factors  of  the  medium,  so 
that  a  definite  form  takes  shape.  And  this  form 
can  be  grasped  only  by  contemplation,  by  bring- 
ing the  mind  to  bear  on  all  the  constituents  of 
the  work  and  by  tracing  their  dependence  one  on 
another.     All  great  art  belongs  in  this  category. 

211. 

Two  Species  of  Art. — Some  go  to  art  merely 
as  a  recreation,  to  be  soothed  and  delighted. 
(  "What  lovely  colour !"  "How  restful !"  )  Others 
go  to  art  for  stimulation,  to  receive  a  dynamic 
aesthetic  experience.  (Silence!)  There  are  two 
types  of  art  to  gratify  both  types  of  individu- 
als: for  the  former,  Rubinstein,  Schumann, 
Chopin,  Donatello,  Corot,  Greuze,  Whistler;  for 
the  latter,  Brahms,  Beethoven,  Bach,  Michel- 
angelo, Rubens,  Da  Vinci,  Cezanne. 


ART  AND  THE  INDIVIDUAL        251 

212. 

Symbolism. — Those  who  search  for  symbolism 
in  art  are  incapable  of  true  aesthetic  emotion. 
Unable  to  react  to  a  work  of  art  which  they 
have  been  taught  is  great,  they  seek  to  endow  it 
with  petty  mythical  qualities  which  their  minds 
are  capable  of  grasping. 

213. 

Art  Appreciation  Subject  to  Evolution. — 
Complete  and  profound  appreciation  of  art  does 
not  appear  suddenly  in  an  individual.  In  the 
beginning  there  are  only  a  sensitivity  and  an  in- 
telligence which  form  the  nucleus  of  appreciation. 
This  nucleus  is  susceptible  of  development,  but  the 
person  possessing  it  cannot,  at  first  view,  com- 
prehend the  great  and  complex  art  works  of  the 
masters.  Such  a  person  must  begin  his  educa- 
tion with  works  easy  of  understanding.  Many, 
who  might  eventually  be  able  to  see  into  the  depths 
of  aesthetic  expression,  become  biased  against  the 
higher  forms  of  art  because  of  their  inability  to 
sound  them  without  preliminary  preparation.  It 
is  these  people  who  declare  primitive  and  simple 
decorative  art  (folk-music  and  mosaics)  to  be  the 
greatest.  The  true  art  lover,  however,  does  not 
halt  at  this  stage.     He  begins  his  appreciation 


252  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

before  the  simpler  creative  expressions ;  and  there 
takes  place  within  him  a  gradual  evolution  of 
comprehension.  When  he  receives  pleasure  from 
a  simple  art  work,  he  at  once  analyses  its  mo- 
tivating power.  In  time  the  result  of  his  analysis 
becomes  assimilated ;  and  later,  when  he  comes  be- 
fore a  slightly  more  complex  work,  he  stands  in 
the  same  relation  to  it  as  he  did  to  the  first,  only 
now  he  is  strengthened  by  his  past  mental  proc- 
esses. Thus  he  proceeds  to  the  third  work,  which 
is  less  simple  than  the  first  two;  and  so  on,  to 
the  limit  of  his  capabilities.  There  does  not  ex- 
ist a  great  artist  who,  at  the  debut  of  his  career, 
could  have  understood  his  later  creations. 


214. 

Law  and  Taste. — Do  not  deceive  yourself. 
Taste  is  not  a  point  of  view  or  an  a  priori  prefer- 
ence which  you  bring  to  objects,  contacts,  colours 
and  sounds.  Taste  is  the  physiological  reflex 
which  results  from  receptivity.  When  stating 
your  preference  you  are  diagnosing  your  bodily 
characteristics.  And  you  are  doing  more  than 
that:  you  are  stating  heliotropic  and  chemical 
laws.  No  amount  of  voluntary  activity  can  al- 
ter your  reflexes.  You  have  registered  an  im- 
pression which,  because  it  is  physical,  is  unal- 
terable.     The  seeming  fluctuations  in  taste  are 


ART  AND  THE  INDIVIDUAL        253 

due  largely  to  psychic  changes.  The  physical 
and  chemical  laws  governing  our  reactions  to 
stimuli  are  permanent.  There  are  no  meta-chem- 
ical  persons. 

215. 

Un^sthetic  Pretenders. — A  pure  aesthetic  re- 
action among  art  lovers  is  a  rare  experience.    The 
great  majority  of  persons  who   pretend  to   ap- 
preciate art  never  so  much  as  puncture  the  sur- 
face of  a  genuine  art  work.     They  see  only  its 
superficial  side,  its  inartistic  integument.     They 
react,  not  to  aesthetic  forms,  but  to  the  literary 
accretions   which  have  attached  to   all  the  arts 
and  hidden  their  inner  message.     So  long  have 
critics  written  almost  exclusively  concerning  the 
minor  and  insignificant   accompaniments   of  art, 
that  its  true  significance  has  become  obfuscated 
in  a  mass  of  rhetorical  irrelevancies.     The  aver- 
age critic,  like  the  average  individual,  sees  only 
anecdote,  materiality  and  illustration  in  painting ; 
moods,    symbolism,    associative    promptings    and 
dramatic  effects  in  music;  description,  plot  and 
style  in  literature.      But  all  these  qualities   and 
characteristics  represent  only  one  phase  of  art — 
its  most  superficial  and  unimportant  phase.     The 
other  side  of  art  is  its  true  and  vital  content. 
Here   are   the   depths    of   art — the    fundamental 
form,  the  basic  significance.     Herein  one  comes 


254  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

in  contact  with  the  complex  laws  of  form  and 
organisation;  and  it  is  by  these  laws  that  art  is 
to  be  tested  if  we  would  determine  its  true  worth. 
The  educated  art  lover — the  one  capable  of  genu- 
ine and  profound  appreciation — overlooks  the  ob^ 
vious  surface  of  an  art  work  and  goes  at  once 
to  the  deeper  form,  the  inherent  structure.  The 
reason  that  modern  art  has  so  generally  been 
denied  sanity  and  been  dismissed  as  charlatanism 
is  because  it  strives  toward  an  elimination  of  the 
nugatory  qualities  by  which  the  superficial  art 
lover  and  critics  judge  all  creative  works.  Mod- 
ern art  is  tending  toward  purification — that  is, 
toward  a  clear  and  unencumbered  statement  of 
the  sesthetic  basis  on  which  all  great  art  is  neces- 
sarily built.  It  attempts  to  do  away  with  the 
literary,  anecdotal,  illustrative  and  associative  ob- 
stacles. Therefore,  since  these  are  the  very  quali- 
ties that  have  commonly  constituted  the  founda- 
tion of  art  valuation,  the  unsesthetic  individual 
finds  modern  «l'^■  '^v-  .  ehensible,  and  attempts 
to  dismiss  it  s  meaningless.  But  did  he  under- 
stand the  older  art  in  any  of  its  profounder  phases 
he  could  und(  rstand  the  modern  art.  Between 
the  old  and  lie  new  there  is  only  a  superficial 
difference:  they  strive  for  the  same  effect, — only 
their  means  arc  dissimilar.  The  present-day 
scoffer  cannot  grasp  the  new  because  he  has 
never  grasped   the  significance  of  the  old. 


ART  AND  THE  INDIVIDUAL        255 

216. 

Criticism  by  Taste. — The  critic  whose  basis  of 
judgment  is  taste,  or  personal  impression,  is  the 
least  bearable  of  all  egotists.  The  egotistic  ar- 
tist produces  beauty;  but  the  impressionist  critic 
produces  naught  but  opinions.  To  appreciate  a 
work  of  art  one  must  be  able  to  re-create  it;  in 
short,  the  true  critic  is  a  creator.  And,  by  the 
same  token,  the  true  creator  is  a  critic.  Crea- 
tion is  but  a  series  of  criticisms  applied  to  an 
active  medium.  But  the  average  critic  tells  us 
only  what  pleases  him,  and  asks  us  to  accept  his 
judgment.  He  repudiates  science,  declaring  that 
his  impressions  are  more  accurate.  But  why,  one 
might  ask,  is  his  impression  more  accurate  than 
the  impression  of  another.?  His  answer  will  be 
only  a  piece  of  egotism.  Impressionist  criticism 
is  founded  entirely  on  unsubstantiated  conceit.  It 
is  antipathetical  to  progress.  It  apotheosises  ig- 
norance. It  attempts  to  make  of  art  a  kind  of 
mild  recreation — a  pastime  and  a  sport  without 
vital  significance  and  without  any  intimate  rela- 
tion to  life.  But  such  a  trivial  and  personal  atti- 
tude pleases  the  illiterate.  Every  one  imagines 
himself  to  be  a  critic  of  art.  The  greatest 
critics,  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  are  the  men 
who  display  the  greatest  amount  of  erudition, 
for  this  erudition  is  regarded  as  a  justification 


^56  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

of  their  conceit.     Hence  the  respect  for  such  men 
as  Sainte-Beuve  and  Brunetiere. 


217. 

Form  and  Substance. — True  art  creates  in  us 
a  desire  for  repetition,  and  gives  us,  on  continual 
contemplation,  a  never-decreasing  emotional  grati- 
fication. How  insignificant  then  become  the  plot 
in  literature  and  the  anecdote  or  illustration  in 
painting!  We  may  know  the  plot  of  a  book 
thoroughly,  and  yet  find  an  added  pleasure  in  re- 
reading it.  We  may  be  familiar  with  every  illus- 
trative detail  in  a  picture,  and  still  enjoy  it  after 
repeated  perceptions.  And  the  longer  we  con- 
template a  painting,  or  the  oftener  we  read  a 
book,  the  less  value  attaches  to  plot  or  illustra- 
tion. This  does  not  hold  good  of  a  book  which 
is  wholly  narrative,  or  of  a  picture  which  is  merely 
illustrative.  Of  such  works  we  tire  at  once,  and 
find  no  pleasure  in  repeating  our  perception  of 
them  any  more  than  we  enjoy  going  over  the 
figures  of  a  problem  which  we  have  once  solved. 
The  conclusion  is  obvious  that  the  enduring  qual- 
ity of  art  is  something  deeper  than  the  mere  story 
or  transcription — that  the  substance  is  nugatory 
as  compared  to  the  form.  The  fundamental  struc- 
ture upon  which  the  material  (plot,.mood,  represen- 
tation) is  built  is  the  only  test  of  a3sthetic  worth. 


ART  AND  THE  INDIVIDUAL        257 

S18. 

True  Criticism. — Criticism  is  not  the  finding 
of  analogies,  but  the  explaining  of  differences.  It 
is  the  analysing  of  art  works  in  their  relation  to 
other  art  works ;  and  its  purpose  is  so  to  clarify 
and  explain  the  processes  of  one  artist — his  errors 
as  well  as  his  merits — that  another  artist,  reading 
the  criticism,  will  immediately  be  led  to  try  the 
other's  methods,  assimilating  what  is  relative  to 
him,  discarding  that  which  is  not.  The  basis  of 
a  critic's  judgment  should  be  a  knowledge  of 
the  functioning  of  his  own  brain  and  body — 
which  is  the  same  as  saying  a  knowledge  of  the 
broad  principles  on  which  all  nature — and  there- 
fore art — is  built.  The  critic  should  also  possess 
the  philosopher's  power  of  penetration,  and  in 
addition  should  understand  the  basic  laws  of  aes- 
thetics. Furthermore,  he  should  be  superior  to 
his  own  tastes  and  prejudices,  capable  of  over- 
riding his  personal  predilections. 

219. 

The  Cult  of  the  Newly-Intellectual.= — • 
There  is  a  certain  type  of  shallow  iconoclast  whose 
entire  enthusiasm  is  summed  up  in  the  word  "new." 
He  allies  himself  intellectually  with  the  latest 
manifestations  in  art,  irrespective  of  their  worth. 


258  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

and  disparages  all  the  great  work  of  the  past. 
He  generally  possesses  a  superficial  knowledge  of 
the  manners  and  conditions  of  art,  and  manages 
to  give  a  pseudo-authoritative  air  to  his  anarchis- 
tic preferences.  If  his  chief  interests  or  attain' 
ments  are  musical,  he  decries  the  scores  of  Haj^dn 
and  Brahms  and  even  Beethoven,  and  acclaims 
the  compositions  of  the  ultra-modern  musicians. 
If  his  tastes  have  been  nurtured  in  an  environ- 
ment of  painting,  he  will  scoff  at  the  Renaissance 
masters  and  do  obeisance  before  the  canvases  of 
the  latest  abstractionists.  To  him  the  past  is 
dead,  for  he  has  never  fully  understood  the  past. 
His  heresies  are  without  foundation,  and  his 
choices  are  insincere  because  unreasoned.  He  is 
without  the  knowledge  which  would  give  him  power 
to  distinguish  between  that  which  is  enduring 
and  that  which  is  transient.  He  imagines  that 
a  scornful  repudiation  of  the  giants  of  yesterday 
and  an  unbounded  eulogy  of  the  radicals  of  to- 
day will  act  as  a  substitute  in  the  world's  eyes 
for  a  deep  and  comprehensive  knowledge.  But 
he  impresses  only  those  who  are  as  mentally  shal- 
low as  himself. 

220. 

Verbal  Claqueurs.— TYiosq  specious  critics  who 
describe  a  work  of  art  as  possessing  a  "spirit- 
ual beauty,"  a  "noble  purpose,"  a  "poetic  con- 


ART  AND  THE  INDIVIDUAL        259 

tent,"  a  "mystical  passion,"  an  "other-worldli- 
ness,"  a  "divine  symbolism,"  a  "sublime  import," 
or  a  "devotional  tenderness" — such  critics  are 
merely  indulging  in  vague  and  high-sounding 
synonyms  for  their  ignorance  of  the  science  of 
aesthetics.  They  feel, — but  they  do  not  under- 
stand the  means  employed  by  the  artist  to  make 
them  feel.  They  are  not  true  critics,  but  illit- 
erates applauding  with  their  mouths. 


The  Critic  as  the  Dupe  of  Second-Rate  Ar- 
tists.— The  superficial  and  "sensitised"  attitude 
of  the  critic  is  not  altogether  his  own  fault. 
Critics  as  a  rule  spring  into  existence  by  being 
told  that  they  understand  art.  The  man  who 
fills  the  critic's  chair  rarely  possesses  sufficient 
initiative  to  have  commandeered  his  position  un- 
assisted. The  second-rate  artist  is  the  power  be- 
hind the  critic's  judgment.  He  it  is  who,  sensing 
his  own  ignorance  of  great  art,  sees  in  mystery 
and  transcendentalism  an  opportunity  for  recog- 
nition :  he  realises  that  symbolism  can  masquerade 
as  fertility  of  thought,  and  that  ambiguity  is  not 
seldom  a  synonym  for  profundity.  He  therefore 
talks  mystery,  heaven-sent  suggestion  and  inspira- 
tion, and  at  the  same  time  substantiates  the  vague- 
ness and  incertitude  of  the  critic.     Thus,  while 


260  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

fattening  on  the  proceeds  of  a  spurious  eminence, 
he  gratefully  repays  the  critic  for  his  eulogies  by 
agreeing  with  the  other's  puerilities.  The  con- 
spiracy of  mutual  ignorance  gathers  force  and 
power.  The  public,  beholding  the  critic  and  the 
artist  in  complete  accord,  accepts  the  dicta  of 
the  one  and  the  work  of  the  other.  This  is  why 
all  art  journals  are  devoted  to  second-rate  art 
and  are  edited  by  second-rate  critics. 


Critics  a  Hindrance  to  Esthetics. — One 
reason  for  the  backwardness  of  the  science  of 
aesthetics  is  to  be  found  in  the  appointment  of 
unphilosophic  men  to  the  position  of  critic. 
Critics  are  chosen,  not  for  what  they  know,  but 
for  what  they  feel.  Consequently  the  positions 
are  held  by  extremely  receptive-minded  persons 
who,  while  sometimes  feeling  the  mastery  of  the 
work  before  them,  cannot  appreciate  it  profound- 
ly because  they  are  ignorant  of  the  laws  govern- 
ing it.  The  great  mass  of  irrelevant,  prejudicial 
and  unreasoned  criticism  which  for  years  has 
flooded  our  journals  has  turned  the  thinking  man 
not  only  against  the  critics  but  against  the  artist 
as  well.  Such  critics  as  Pater,  Anatole  France, 
Gautier,  Baudelaire  and  Arthur  Symons  have 
come  very  near  making  the  sensitive  artist  hate 


ART  AND  THE  INDIVIDUAL        261 

himself.  It  is  only  in  very  recent  years  that 
the  philosophic  and  scientific  minds  have,  in  go- 
ing direct  to  art,  discovered  that  the  field  is  more 
than  worthy  of  their  profoundest  concern.  As  a 
result,  analytic  thinking  is  supplanting  the  mere- 
ly sensitised  impressionism  of  yesterday's  art 
critics.  The  Appollinaires  are  succeeding  the 
Baudelaires ;  and  the  Clive  Bells  and  Roger  Frys 
are  taking  the  place  of  the  Arthur  Symonses. 

223. 

Sic  Itur  ad  Astra. — In  art,  perhaps  more  than 
in  any  other  phase  of  life,  one's  instinct  is  to 
argue  from  one's  limited  viewpoint.  Art  logic  is 
dictated  by  immediate  experience.  The  constant 
illiterate  insistence  that  art  is  a  democratic  mani- 
festation has  stripped  it  of  the  intellectual  re- 
spect necessary  for  understanding  it.  Conse- 
quently that  form  of  painting  to  which  one  is 
attracted  most  highly  will  be  the  basis  of  that 
person's  esthetique.  And  since  we  first  react  to 
simple  and  unsesthetic  works — generally  to  senti- 
mental things — simplicity  becomes  our  gauge  of 
art  merit.  Thus  do  the  kindergarten  painters, 
writers  and  composers  acquire  fabulous  reputa- 
tions. And  the  democratic  critics  use  that  popu- 
larity (human  appeal,  they  term  it)  as  proof  of 
the    artists'    greatness !      Tschaikovsky,    Dickens 


262  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

and  Millet  are  thus  raised  to  the  rank  of  great- 
ness. 

224. 

Different  Phases  of  the  Arts. — Although, 
for  the  artist,  there  exists  a  definite  lacuna  be- 
tween the  documentary  and  illustrative  side,  and 
the  purely  aesthetic  side  of  the  three  arts,  the  pub- 
lic is  inclined  to  believe  that  there  is  no  such  dis- 
tinction. They  believe  that  painting  is  wholly 
a  question  of  exalted  illustration,  that  writing  is 
entirely  a  matter  of  telling  a  story  well,  and  that 
the  mission  of  music  is  to  evoke  moods  of  gaiety, 
melancholy  and  the  like.  From  their  standpoint, 
all  truly  great  art  should  bring  tears  (either  of 
joy  or  sorrow)  to  the  eyes.  Hence  their  adora- 
tion of  the  theatre.  To  them  the  utilitarian  side 
of  art  is  also  important.  Music  is  the  invitation 
to  the  dance:  literature  lends  itself  admirably  to 
document;  and  painting  may  be  used  as  an  aux- 
iliary of  document,  for  the  purpose  of  visualising 
scenes  and  events.  Here  ends  the  public's  con- 
cern with  art.  Art,  however,  for  the  man  who 
knows  and  loves  it,  has  an  entirely  different  mean- 
ing, for  not  one  of  the  qualities  commonly  at- 
tributed to  it  has  any  ability  to  move  one  aes- 
thetically. Music,  literature  and  painting,  as 
arts,  are  based  on  certain  foundations  which  give 
the  sensitive  and  tutored  auditor,  reader  or  spec- 


ART  AND  THE  INDIVIDUAL        263 

tator  an  emotion  of  rhythmic  tactile  form.  It  is 
the  artist's  knowledge  of  his  medium  in  all  its 
plastic  phases,  combined  with  his  ability  to  con- 
struct form  as  nature  constructs  life  (namely,  as 
inevitable  sequences,  growing  out  of  the  conjunc- 
tion of  two  dominating  forces),  that  creates  in  us 
that  feeling  of  organised  solidity  which  is  the 
end  of  all  art  and  which  alone  produces  emotional 
satisfaction.  The  greatest  art  is  that  which  makes 
us  feel  the  underlying  forces  of  life  most  power- 
fully. 

225. 

In  Defence  of  Complex  Art. — There  is  al- 
ways a  feeling  of  pleasure  in  overcoming  an  ob- 
stacle or  in  solving  a  problem;  and  the  more 
stubborn  the  obstacle  and  the  more  perplexing 
the  problem,  the  greater  the  pleasure  of  conquer- 
ing. This  is  why  the  greater  aesthetic  pleasure 
comes  as  a  result  of  having  understood  or  com- 
prehended a  complex  or  subtle  piece  of  art.  An 
obvious  piece  of  art  may  please  us  mildly;  but 
we  have  not  been  necessitated  to  grapple  with  it 
intellectually.  We  have  been  denied  the  pleasure 
of  overcoming. 

226. 

Thought  and  Art  Inseparable. — Many  of 
the  leaders  of  modern  art  have  been  charged  with 


264  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

having  too  philosophic  and  analytic  an  outlook 
to  be  genuinely  creative  artists.  Indeed,  by  many 
the  whole  constructive  revolution  of  the  contem- 
porary searchers — Strauss,  Schoenberg,  Korn- 
gold,  Cezanne,  Matisse,  Picasso — is  regarded  as 
a  coldly  scientific  and  theoretical  movement.  Is 
ignorance,  then,  an  aid  to  the  creator?  Is  knowl- 
edge a  handicap  to  aesthetic  production?  It  is 
difficult  to  regard  such  a  doctrine  seriously.  In 
the  entire  history  of  art  there  has  never  been  a 
great  creator  who  did  not  possess  a  profoundly 
philosophic  brain,  who  was  not  a  leader  of  men 
and  thought,  who  did  not  sense  more  than  vaguely 
the  underlying  forces  of  life.  Where  history 
stops  on  the  hither  side  of  their  work,  we  can 
read  the  problems  of  philosophy  from  their  crea- 
tions ;  and  herein  lies  the  man !  Yet  there  are 
critics  who  sneer  at  the  idea  of  "understanding" 
a  piece  of  art.  One  should,  they  explain,  enjoy 
It  immediately  and  instinctively!  A  dictum  of 
ignorance!  Is  not  such  a  doctrine  the  outgrowth 
of  a  desire  to  explain  away  one's  lack  of  enjoy- 
ment? Thought  is  a  great  and  joyful  adventure 
for  all  but  weaklings :  it  has  even  wooed  men  away 
from  life.  But  the  non-thinker,  fearing  the  vicis- 
situdes of  thought,  cries  "degeneracy"  at  the  no- 
tion that  aesthetic  enjoyment  necessitates  a  proc- 
ess of  mentation.  Furthermore,  he  denies  that 
the  man  who  ponders  and  analyses  can  enjoy  a 


ART  AND  THE  INDIVIDUAL        265 

work  of  art.  Another  stupid  fallacy.  It  is  only 
he  who  understands,  to  the  last  point,  the  con- 
struction of  a  master's  work,  that  is  able  to  ex- 
perience the  fullest  ecstasy  which  the  work  has 
to  offer.  Who  would  dare  say  that  the  onlooker 
receives  more  pleasure  from  an  art  work  than  the 
artist  who  created  it  ?  When  we  can  know  a  work 
of  art  as  well  as  feel  it,  can  live  it  as  well  as  ad- 
mire it,  we  are,  in  reality,  only  recreating  the 
work  with  the  artist  as  personal  guide. 

227. 

Why  the  New  Colour  Art  at  First  Seems 
Harsh. — The  eye  must  be  trained  to  receive 
powerful  colours,  just  as  the  ear  must  be  trained 
to  receive  powerful  sounds.  The  development  of 
the  modern  orchestra  has  been  gradual,  and  the 
ear  has  had  time  to  adjust  itself  by  degrees  to 
the  increased  volume  of  sound.  If  the  modern 
orchestra  had  suddenly  sprung  into  being  in 
Haydn's  day,  for  instance,  the  music  would  have 
been  lost  in  the  unaccustomed  turbulence:  the  ear 
would  have  revolted.  The  art  of  colour  has  re- 
cently been  hberated  with  astonishing  sudden- 
ness. It  has  blossomed  forth  almost  overnight. 
This  is  why  it  dazzles  eyes  fed  altogether  on  dull 
and  neutral  tones.  When  the  eye  becomes  ad- 
justed, like   the  ear,   complaints   of   raucousness 


^66  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

and  harshness  will  cease;  and  colour's  new  in- 
tensity, like  that  of  music,  will  give  birth  to  a 
fuller  aesthetic  emotion. 


Popularity  and  the  Arts. — ^Whereas  many 
great  works  of  art  in  music  and  literature  can, 
while  being  significant,  possess  elements  of  popu- 
larity, no  work  of  painting  or  sculpture  which 
depends  solely  upon  its  own  pure  expression  can 
appeal  to  the  general  public.  This  is  explainable 
by  the  fact  that  painting  and  sculpture  are  un- 
able either  to  produce  superficial  sensations  by 
physical  means  (as  music  <;an),  or,  when  abstract, 
to  call  up  reminiscent  moods  and  associations, 
after  the  manner  of  literature.  The  only  works 
of  painting  and  sculpture  capable.of  pleasing  the 
mediocre  are  those  which  are  unrhythmical  and 
are  at  bottom  literary — the  highest  type  being 
such  works  as  Rodin's  Le  Penseur  and  Botticelli's 
Spring.  Even  when  painting  and  sculpture  are 
deliberately  planned  for  popular  appeal,  they  can 
never  have  the  wide-spread  popularity  of  a  piece 
of  lively  dance  music  or  a  third-rate  novel  of  dra- 
matic adventure,  for  in  these  latter  works  the 
sensational  reaction  is  far  stronger  and  of  greater 
duration.  A  popular  picture  or  statue  can  at  best 
give  one  but  a  momentary  sensual  reaction,  not 


ART  AND  THE  INDIVIDUAL        267 

through  its  insistence  upon  rhythm,  but  because 
of  its  imitative  presentation  of  a  subject.  This 
explains  the  wide-spread  interest  in  music  and 
literature  as  opposed  to  the  limited  interest  in 
painting  and  sculpture. 

229. 

In  Defense  of  Law. — Music — the  most  exact 
and  formal  and  rigid  of  the  arts — is  the  furthest 
advanced,  the  purest,  and  the  most  moving.  What 
have  the  petty  carpers  at  systems  to  say  to  this? 


Instinctive  Demand  for  Order. — The  exclud- 
ing process  through  which  the  mind  goes  when 
contemplating  a  work  of  art  attests  to  the  fact 
that  it  is  primarily  form  and  order  which  con- 
stitute art's  attractiveness.  If  you  are  reading 
a  book  wherein  there  is  an  irrelevant  passage, 
your  instinct  will  be  to  pass  over  it  without  read- 
ing. It  is  not  in  line  with  the  story  and  is  there- 
fore excluded.  When  regarding  a  painting 
wherein  there  is  a  smear  or  a  flaw  constituting 
a  line  or  shape  unrelated  to  the  picture's  com- 
position, your  eye  at  once  excludes  it.  You  re- 
fuse to  contemplate  it  or  to  connect  it  with  the 
picture's   linear   directions.      Also  during  a   mu- 


268  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

sical  recital  you  strive  to  exclude  noises  or  sounds 
from  the  outside  and  to  concentrate  your  atten- 
tion on  the  music  alone.  If  these  accidental 
passages,  lines  or  sounds  fitted  into  the  aesthetic 
scheme  of  the  art  work  under  contemplation,  you 
would  not  exclude  them.  It  is  only  when  they 
run  counter  to  the  form  of  the  work  that  you 
find  it  necessary  to  eliminate  them.  The  process 
is  a  result  of  your  unconscious  and  instinctive 
demand  for  order.  And  if  these  extraneous  shapes 
are  so  aggressive  as  to  oppose  exclusion,  your 
pleasure  in  the  art  work  under  contemplation  is 
spoiled. 

231. 

The  Resentment  of  Ignorance. — The  an- 
tagonism of  the  layman  to  the  great  artist  is 
due  largely  to  the  fact  that  the  great  artist  is 
not  easily  understandable.  He  requires  effort  in 
order  to  be  comprehended.  Appreciation  is  as 
difficult  as  creation.  Herein  is  implied  the  func- 
tion of  the  critic. 


i.  Unity  in  Musical  Presentation. — Those  who 

I     prefer  the    solos    of   great   virtuosi    to    complete 

and  balance  orchestral  performances  have  not  yet 

attained  to  that  aesthetic  vision  in  which  a  larger 


ART  AND  THE  INDIVIDUAL        269 

unity  has  supplanted  the  superficial  unity  of  sin- 
gle tones.  The  implied  unity  of  a  single  instru- 
ment is  a  two-dimensional  image;  whereas  the 
unity  of  a  perfectly  welded  orchestra  is  the  unity 
of  subjectively  tactile  form:  all  the  musical  items 
are  co-related  and  interdependent.  One  untutored 
in  aesthetic  form  is  apt  to  regard  the  orchestra  as 
pluralistic;  but,  in  truth,  it  is  as  expressive  of 
unity  as  the  human  body  which  also  is  composed 
of  a  multitude  of  parts. 


Futurism. — Nothing  during  the  last  century 
has  so  injured  the  cause  of  modern  painting  as 
has  Futurism.  Because  of  its  wide  publicity  it 
has  come  to  be  regarded  by  the  uninformed  as 
the  pivot  around  which  the  new  work  swings. 
It  is  not  seldom  used  as  a  genetic  term  to  char- 
acterise the  entire  cycle  of  modern  aesthetic  en- 
deavour in  painting,  and  is  frequently  set  up  as 
a  standard  of  valuation.  But  Futurism  is  mod- 
ern only  by  a  chronological  accident.  Basically 
it  is  old,  and,  as  a  manifestation  of  the  twentieth 
century,  is  decadent.  It  is  not  in  line  with  the 
modern  evolution ;  but  a  throw-back.  It  has  no 
relation,  either  organically  or  superficially,  to 
the  principles  of  the  new  progress.  At  bottom 
it  is  illustration,  and  its  entire  aim  is  representa- 


270  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

tion.  There  is  no  difference  in  mental  attitude 
between  an  illustrator  of  materiality  and  an  illus- 
trator of  moods  and  sensations.  The  most  primi- 
tive music  strove  for  precisely  the  same  effect 
that  Futurism  strives  for.  It  is  without  aesthetic 
significance,  and  consequently  no  more  than  a  cuti- 
cle growth  on  genuine  modern  art.  Its  bizarrerie 
of  appearance  has  intrigued  the  shallow-minded 
who  are  unable  to  distinguish  between  the  reality 
and  the  simulacrum.  Not  until  it  has  been  ig- 
nored or  forgotten  will  the  true  significance  of 
the  authentic  modern  art  be  appreciated. 

234. 

Misinterpreting  Art's  Purposes. — The  chief 
obstacle  in  the  way  of  aesthetic  appreciation  is  an 
inability  to  distinguish  between  the  apparent  and 
the  organic  purposes  of  art. 

235. 

Handicaps  to  the  Study  of  Painting. — To  be 
popular  a  painter  must  be  something  of  a  pro- 
fessor in  the  subjects  of  hterature,  archseology, 
photography,  botany,  meteorology  and  physiol- 
ogy, for  when  the  mind  of  mankind  exerts  itself 
on  a  work  of  graphic  art,  it  operates  through 
these  channels.     Philosophy  and  aesthetics  might 


ART  AND  THE  INDIVIDUAL        271 

be  non-existent  so  far  as  popular  appreciation  is 
concerned.  After  centuries  of  association  with 
works  of  painting  the  public  is  no  nearer  a  com- 
prehension of  rhythmic  ensembles  than  it  was 
during  fifteenth  century  Italy.  The  fault  lies 
in  our  methods  of  teaching.  So  long  as  the 
representative  side  of  painting  is  insisted  on,  just 
so  long  will  the  world  remain  in  ignorance  of 
aesthetic  principles.  To-day  the  average  school 
girl  knows  more  of  music  than  critics  know  of 
painting.  This  is  because  the  inarticulateness  of 
music  has  facilitated  study  along  purely  abstract 
and  theoretical  lines.  Musical  progress  has  not 
been  impeded  by  a  whole  suite  of  extraneous 
considerations,  as  in  the  case  of  painting. 


The  Intellectual  Judgment. — The  intelli- 
gence of  an  artist  rarely  furnishes  the  world  with 
a  criterion  of  appreciation.  He  is  generally 
judged  by  his  sensuousness,  by  his  mannerisms, 
by  his  thematic  selection,  by  his  temperamental 
predilections,  even  by  his  sentiments.  But  these 
are  factors  of  only  secondary  importance  to  his 
art.  To  arrive  at  a  true  valuation  of  his  powers, 
one  must  judge  the  artist  by  his  intelligence  alone. 
Here  there  is  stability  and  order.  However,  it 
must  not  be  implied  that  the  intelligence  alone 


^72  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

can  create.  This  were  impossible ;  but  impressions 
must  first  be  consciously  organised  before  they 
can  be  given  concrete  expression. 

237. 

The  Demand  for  Obviousness  in  Art. — ^An 
explanation  of  the  popular  theory  that  the  test 
of  art  is  its  "humanity"  and  obviousness,  is  to 
be  found  in  the  reversed  method  by  which  the 
world  judges  a  work  of  art.  The  average  per- 
son's admiration  for  art  is  born  in  front  of  the 
completed  works  of  the  greatest  masters.  Un- 
able to  comprehend  them,  he  turns  to  those  works 
which  are  simple  and  primitive  and  which  can 
be  readily  grasped.  Here,  he  imagines,  is  repre- 
sented the  highest  and  most  conscious  expression 
of  the  creative  will.  He  can  understand  primi- 
tive art  with  but  little  study ;  and  the  more  com- 
plex art,  too  subtle  and  deep  for  his  analytic 
comprehension,  becomes  in  his  eyes  valueless  be- 
cause seemingly  chaotic.  Into  this  point  of  view 
enters  the  demand  that  art  should  be  sufficiently 
lucid  to  give  itself  easily  to  the  ignorant.  Of 
what  value  is  art,  he  asks,  if  it  is  not  comprehensi- 
ble to  all.?  But  why,  one  asks  in  return,  assume 
that  art  is  the  property  of  all?  One  accepts  the 
statements  of  eminent  scientists  on  subjects  which 
the  layman  cannot  grasp.     Why  should  an  untu- 


ART  AND  THE  INDIVIDUAL        273 

tored  person  scorn  equally  scientific  and  obscure 
principles  of  art?  Readily  comprehensible  art 
is  no  further  advanced  than  readily  comprehensi- 
ble science.  Reverence  and  curiosity  are  the  first 
steps  to  knowledge. 

238. 

The  Modern  Standard  of  Judgment. — ^When 
will  our  art  critics  rid  themselves  of  the  habit  of 
welcoming  all  disorganised  and  purely  enthusias- 
tic work  as  profound? 

239. 

Originality. — Few  critics  or  contemporaries 
will  concede  originality  to  an  artist.  Rather  will 
they  acclaim  him  greater  than  he  is ;  but  unorigi- 
nal he  must  remain.  Modern  critics  insist  that 
El  Greco  conceived  Impressionism,  that  Diirer  "in- 
vented" Cubism.  To  whom,  one  wonders,  did  the 
critics  of  their  day  accredit  El  Greco  and  Diirer? 
The  withholding  of  this  credit  is  due  to  an  over- 
estimation  of  its  importance.  Originality  in  an 
artist  can  in  no  way  give  more  than  a  shght  and 
unexpected  advance  to  the  mechanical  side  of  his 
medium:  it  will  never  increase  his  ultimate  great- 
ness as  a  creator.  Art  is  judged  by  its  inherent 
form,  not  by  its  originality. 


274  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

240. 

Qualities  in  Painting  Which  Ordinakily 
Pass  as  Great. — In  the  general  contemplation  of 
painting  many  qualities  which  are  regarded  as 
definite  signs  of  greatness  have  no  bearing  on 
the  aesthetic  worth  of  the  work.  These  qualities 
meet  certain  demands  in  the  individual  whose  edu- 
cation has  been  faulty  or  whose  responsiveness  is 
the  result  of  early  emotional  associations.  When 
the  average  critic  beholds  poorly  depicted  ob- 
jects of  rich  and  varied  colouring,  he  not  infre- 
quently mistakes  their  ornamental  aspect  for 
technical  variety.  When  he  sees  an  effective  rendi- 
tion of  a  beautiful  woman,  he  is  apt  to  overlook 
the  mediocrity  of  execution  in  his  rapt  contem- 
plation of  the  desirable  subject.  Confronted  by  a 
rural  scene  which  recalls  mellow  and  sentiment- 
hallowed  vistas  of  childhood,  the  critic  once  more 
errs  by  attributing  to  the  artist  a  high  degree 
of  creative  reaction  to  natural  beauty.  In  each 
of  these  three  instances  we  find  a  critical  judg- 
ment based  on  considerations  which  are  personal 
and  unrelated  to  intrinsic  artistic  merit.  On  the 
technical  side  of  art  we  find  other  errors  of  valua- 
tion. Portraiturists  who,  by  exaggerating  or 
idealising  certain  salient  facial  characteristics, 
achieve  what  is  commonly  called  "character" 
(after  the  manner  of  Frans  Hals)  are  held  in  high 


ART  AND  THE  INDIVIDUAL        275 

esteem  because  of  some  imagined  esoteric  insight. 
Again,  those  painters  who  practise  a  careless  and 
economical  method  of  brushing  and  attain  to  a 
free  and  brilliant  technique — the  Besnards  and 
the  Sargents — are  ranked  above  the  profounder 
men  whose  surfaces  are  less  masterful.  The  rich 
matiere  of  a  Manet  is  more  admirable  in  the 
critics'  eyes  than  the  profundities  of  a  Cezanne. 
Canvases  in  which  the  colours  are  highly  neutral- 
ised with  white ;  landscapes  revealing  stiff  and  air- 
less objects  with  cold  and  net  outlines;  portraits 
wherein  one  may  read  aloofness,  dignity  and  per- 
sonal detachment — here,  too,  are  qualities  which 
commonly  pass  as  great.  The  early  primitives 
have  been  highly  praised  for  their  "austerity" — 
another  quahty  of  accepted  greatness.  But  this 
austerity  was  not  even  the  result  of  an  aesthetic 
impulse.  The  primitives,  just  learning  the  lessons 
of  art,  desired,  above  all,  to  produce  in  the  specta- 
tor a  quiet,  contemplative  and  calm  emotion,  un- 
ruffled by  any  sensuality  or  memory  of  life.  This 
purely  religious  ideal,  misunderstood  by  modern 
critics,  has  set  criteria  of  judgment;  and  not  un- 
til these  extrinsic  appeals  are  ignored  will  we  be 
able  to  approach  to  a  pure  aesthetic  comprehen- 
sion of  the  art  of  painting.  We,  as  moderns,  are 
capable  of  other  and  deeper  emotions;  and  these 
must  be  gratified  before  we  are  able  to  experience 
a  complete  aesthetic  reaction. 


276  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

241. 

Qualities  in  Literature  Which  Ordinarily 
Pass  as  Great. — The  criteria  of  greatness  in 
literature  vary  almost  with  the  individual.  So 
long  has  the  aesthetic  side  of  letters  been  sub- 
merged by  the  sheer  documentary  that  even  the 
foremost  literary  critics  attempt  to  standardise 
judgment  by  narrative,  rhetorical  and  philosophic 
considerations.  The  result  is  that  the  reasons 
for  literary  greatness  have  become  manifold.  The 
very  chaotic  conditions  of  this  branch  of  criticism 
have  driven  reviewers  to  insisting  openly  on  per- 
sonal preference  as  the  only  means  of  arriving  at 
the  truth.  Sainte-Beuve,  Matthew  Arnold,  Renan 
and  Brunetiere  each  has  his  individual  method  of 
approach,  dependent  on  temperament,  philosophy, 
training  and  racial  viewpoint.  Literature  has  yet 
to  produce  a  critic  whose  approach  is  purely  aes- 
thetic. Among  the  few  major  qualities  which 
ordinarily  determine  literary  greatness  are  philo- 
sophic import,  character  analysis,  the  portrayal 
of  realistic  segments  of  life,  cosmopolitanism  of 
outlook,  spiritual  exaltation,  dissection  of  man- 
ners and  customs,  the  solution  of  social  and  sexual 
problems,  moral  and  ethical  determinism,  psycho- 
logical research,  and  fanciful  creativeness.  And 
among  the  minor  qualities  of  commonly  conceived 
literary  greatness  are  suavity  and  picturesqueness 


ART  AND  THE  INDIVIDUAL        277 

of  style,  atmosphere,  narrative  consistency,  de- 
scriptive colour,  interest,  verisimilitude,  precision, 
and  effective  details.  The  moulding  and  domi- 
nating element  of  literature — namely,  the  es- 
thetic import — is  rarely  considered.  But  it  is 
this  element  which  brings  together  and  organises 
all  the  other  elements,  and  which  infuses  a  literary 
work  with  its  sustaining  vitality.  The  qualities 
which  ordinarily  determine  greatness  are  in  the 
main  necessary  for  the  solidity  of  the  material 
body;  but  that  which  distinguishes  a  great  docu- 
ment from  a  genuine  art  work  is  the  underlying 
form  and  rhythm.  And  this  form  and  rhythm 
permeates  every  sentence  of  a  book  and  gives  it  its 
aesthetic  significance.  Herein  alone  lies  the  true 
greatness  of  literary  art. 

QuAUTiES  IN  Music  Which  Ordinarily  Pass 
AS  Great. — So  little  does  the  average  auditor 
know  of  the  theory  of  music  that  he  is  at  a  loss  as 
to  any  definite  basis  for  the  determination  of  mu- 
sical greatness.  Even  musicians,  whose  lives  are 
spent  in  mastering  the  technique  of  an  instrument, 
are  deficient  on  the  aesthetic  side  of  musical  appre- 
ciation. Music,  being  a  highly  physical  and  emo- 
tional art,  furnishes  the  ignorant  many  intimate, 
but  necessarily  vague,  means  of  forming  criteria 


218  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

of  judgment.  One  is  constantly  hearing  criticisms 
composed  either  of  generalisations  concerning  ex- 
alted states,  or  of  literary  analogies  founded  on 
imaginary  associations.  In  all  such  criticisms  of 
music  can  be  detected  a  lack  of  definite  and  precise 
statement:  the  adjectives  are  ambiguously  de- 
scriptive: the  figures  are  both  personal  and  ob- 
scure, founded  on  superficial  emotional  experi- 
ences and  varying  with  the  temperaments  of  indi- 
viduals. One  definite  fact,  however,  emerges  from 
all  this  confused  criticism:  it  is  that  music  is 
judged  great  according  to  its  ability  to  create 
moods — generally  moods  either  of  gaiety  or  grief. 
Two  good  examples  of  this  type  of  appreciation 
are  Schumann's  Bb  (First)  Symphony  (which  is 
conducive  to  a  feeling  of  joy)  and  Tschaikovsky's 
B-Minor  (Pathetique)  Symphony  (which  leads  to 
an  emotion  of  sadness).  In  all  music  commonly 
accepted  as  great  there  is,  of  course,  the  element 
of  familiarisation — the  quality  which  permits  the 
hearer  to  reconstruct  passages  and  thereby  make 
them  a  familiar  experience.  This  is  why  poly- 
phony never  becomes  popular:  it  does  not  lend 
itself  to  memorisation.  But  in  the  main,  the 
greatness  of  all  music  is  ordinarily  judged  by  emo- 
tional and  associative  methods;  and  here,  as  in 
painting  and  literature,  we  are  confronted  by 
qualities  which  are  only  incidental  in  the  highest 
creation  of  aesthetic  form. 


ART  AND  THE  INDIVIDUAL       279 

243. 

< 

Mediocrity  in  Art. — The  innate  desire  in  man 
for  mastery  and  power  inevitably  inspires  in  him 
from  time  to  time  a  rebellion  against  those  things 
which  restrict  his  freedom  of  thought  or  action; 
and  so  absolute  is  the  domination  which  great 
art  wields  over  his  every  faculty,  that,  in  order 
to  escape  its  intellectual  tyranny,  he  often  longs 
for  wholly  human  and  simple  art.  At  these  times 
he  turns  from  Beethoven,  Bach  and  Mozart  to 
Dvorak,  Chopin  and  Gluck;  from  Balzac,  Shake- 
speare and  Goethe  to  Gautier,  Dumas  and  the 
Arabian  Nights;  from  Rubens,  Michelangelo  and 
Veronese  to  Monet,  Corot  and  Japanese  prints. 
Again,  there  are  those  persons  who  will  ever  re- 
main unable  to  grasp  or  feel  the  harmonious  com- 
plexities of  the  greatest  creative  works ;  and  for 
them  also  the  more  superficial  painters,  writers 
and  composers  will  play  an  important  part.  Such 
minor  artists  are  the  historians  of  moods:  they 
depict,  by  means  of  sounds,  scenes  and  descrip- 
tions, the  common  experiences  of  mankind:  they 
evoke  emotional  states  such  as  sorrow,  pleasure, 
elation  and  restful  contentment:  they  create  fa- 
miliar atmospheres:  they  recall  romantic,  tragic 
or  joyful  memories  of  twilight,  storms,  sunny 
landscapes,  swaying  trees,  blue  sky,  and  expanses 
of  water.     All  these  appeals  are  imperative  for 


280  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

recreation,  and  because  they  are  easily  under- 
standable, even  the  most  intellectual  welcomes 
them  during  periods  of  reaction.  For  this  reason 
there  is  a  need  for  mediocre  art. 


244. 


Knowledge  and  Appreciation. — Knowledge 
should  be  the  changing  background  of  one's  aes- 
thetic appreciation,  never  the  dominant  note. 

245. 

The  New  Sense  of  Colour. — Throughout  the 
evolution  of  man  a  love  of  colour  has  ever  been 
present,  manifesting  itself  in  his  raiment  and  the 
ornaments  with  which  he  surrounded  himself. 
First  the  vivid  plumage  of  birds  was  utilised ;  later 
were  discovered  and  manufactured  a  few  crude 
dyes ;  and  to-day  we  are  possessed  of  a  large  range 
of  earth,  mineral,  vegetable  and  chemical  colours 
of  great  brilliance  and  permanency,  which  are 
used  in  nearly  every  article  of  utility,  luxury  and 
adornment.  This  desire  for  colour — the  result  of 
the  human  need  for  variety  in  all  things  in  life — 
has  given  birth  to  a  large  school  of  writers  who 
use  words  for  the  purpose  of  creating  a  sense  of 
chromatic  richness:  it  has  widely  influenced  or- 
chestral development ;  and  it  has,  during  the  past 


ART  AND  THE  INDIVIDUAL       281 

century,  set  in  motion  a  new  cycle  of  painting. 
But,  withal,  colour  has  remained  an  isolated  and 
casual  pleasure  for  the  eyes,  a  detached  and  frag- 
mentary manifestation:  only  recently  has  it  been 
rationalised  into  a  complete  and  satisfying  gamut. 
One  often  hears  from  persons  appraising  a  gown 
or  an  interior  the  comment  that  a  touch  of  some 
colour  here  or  there  is  needed.  This  absent  colour 
is  generally  a  complementary  or  harmonic  which 
one  feels  should  be  applied  in  order  to  complete 
the  pleasurable,  but  aesthetically  incomplete,  spec- 
tacle. The  musical  scale  has  passed  through  a 
long  evolution  of  development — first  chaos,  then 
the  octave,  then  the  third  and  fifth,  and  in  the  end 
the  twelve  notes  which  represent  a  complete  and 
perfect  cycle  of  sound.  Our  colour  sense,  how- 
ever, has  progressed  but  little.  Although  a  few 
years  ago  a  colour  scale  was  perfected  by  a  few 
artists,  the  presence  of  such  a  scale  is  not  known, 
or  even  suspected,  by  the  world  at  large.  How- 
ever, men  like  Matisse,  whose  sensitivity  to  colour 
is  very  keen,  instinctively  set  down  many  perfect 
chords ;  and  in  a  few  cases  there  have  been  paint- 
ers who  have  felt  the  need  for  absolute  values  in 
colour  expression.  In  time  a  similar  need  will  be 
more  generally  felt;  and  fragmentary  canvases, 
overbalanced  by  hot  or  cold  colours,  will  be  aes- 
thetically unsatisfying  in  the  same  manner  that 
a  piece  of  music,  played  altogether  in  the  bass 


THE  CREATIVE  WILL 


or  treble,  is  unsatisfying.  In  those  artists  who 
have  acquired  an  advanced  sensibility  to  colour 
lies  a  greater  and  more  delicate  power  of  co-ordi- 
nation— a  surer  ability  to  make  a  picture  so  per- 
fectly balanced  that  its  equilibrium  will  hang  on 
the  slenderest  thread.  And  it  is  with  these  ar- 
tists alone  that  the  new  colour  sense  is  taking 
definite  form  and  attaining  to  a  high  importance. 
Gradually,  as  the  complete  scales  of  colour  are 
seen  in  their  canvases,  a  conscious  and  tutored 
desire  for  chromatic  completion  will  grow  up  in 
the  public  mind.  To-day  the  perfect  colour 
gamut  is  the  property  of  only  a  few ;  but  the  pos- 
sibilities it  presents  to  all  artists  cannot  long  be 
kept  hidden. 

S46. 

Conscious  and  Unconscious  Observation. — 
A  common  superstition  regarding  aesthetic  percep- 
tion is  that,  if  one  is  aware  or  conscious  of  per- 
forming the  operations  necessary  to  perceive  a 
work  of  art,  emotional  pleasure  is  at  once  reduced. 
This  superstition  still  holds  even  among  sestheti- 
cians  and  psychologists,  although  there  have  been 
advanced  no  adequate  reasons  to  justify  it.  Such 
a  belief  is  no  doubt  a  relic  of  the  doctrine  of  faith 
and  acceptance — a  by-product  of  mediaeval  resig- 
nationism.  There  is  almost  no  evidence,  theoret- 
ical or  actual,  to  uphold  it;  and  there  is  much 


ART  AND  THE  INDIVIDUAL        283 

evidence  which  condemns  it.  Why,  indeed,  should 
a  conscious  mental  process  destroy  the  effect  of 
physiological  activities?  Is  an  ignorant  emotion 
to  be  preferred  to  a  profound  intellectual  under- 
standing? In  the  contemplation  of  a  work  of  art 
there  are,  to  be  sure,  certain  minute  optical  op- 
erations which  are  not  recorded  by  the  mind — 
operations  which  are,  because  of  their  very  na- 
ture, incapable  of  being  registered  consciously. 
But,  on  the  other  hand,  there  are  many  perceptive 
operations  which  require  a  conscious  knowledge 
and  an  active  process  of  the  will.  In  one  who  sees 
and  feels  deeply,  these  volitional  activities  produce 
the  greatest  and  most  intense  pleasure;  and  un- 
less one  brings  to  bear  on  a  work  of  art  a  con- 
scious concentration  and  performs  the  process  of 
perception  by  organising  the  intelligence,  only  a 
very  superficial  emotion  will  be  experienced.  Art 
enjoyment,  in  its  deep  sense,  is  a  result  of  educa- 
tion and  study,  and  of  painstaking  analysis.  The 
greater  our  knowledge  of  art,  the  greater  our  re- 
action; and  the  more  conscious  our  process  of  per- 
ception, the  keener  our  ecstasy.  Awareness  is  the 
vitality  of  aesthetic  comprehension :  the  intellectual 
emotion  transcends  the  physical.  The  man  who 
enjoys  Beethoven's  symphonies  the  most  pro- 
foundly and  who  can  listen  to  them  repeatedly 
without  tiring,  is  the  analytic  musician  who  un- 
derstands   most    thoroughly    their    construction. 


284  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

Every  note  and  chord  is  to  him  an  anticipated 
event;  and  he  follows  the  sequences  and  develop- 
ments with  an  almost  mathematical  consciousness. 
The  pictures  of  Rubens  appeal  most  forcibly  to 
the  artist  who  sees  every  line,  tone  and  volume 
with  the  accuracy  of  an  architect  measuring  a 
set  of  plans.  So  with  the  greatest  literature.  It 
is  only  the  able  literary  craftsman  who  conscious- 
ly and  analytically  traces  every  word  and  phrase 
and  device  of  a  book  who  can  read  Balzac,  for 
instance,  over  and  over  again  with  increasing 
pleasure.  In  order  for  forms  to  be  appreciated  to 
their  full,  the  spectator  must  consciously  perform 
the  operations  of  perception.  And  the  more  cold- 
ly intellectual  his  process,  the  greater  and  more 
lasting  his  satisfaction.  He  thus  penetrates  re- 
gions of  mental  enjoyment  unknown  to  the  mere 
impressionist  contemplator. 

247. 

"Artistic"  Works. — The  word  "artistic," 
when  applied  to  vases,  panels,  screens,  decora- 
tions and  posters,  has  come  to  connote  solely  a 
quality  of  texture.  An  "artistic"  object  or  pic- 
ture is  one  in  which  the  exactitude  of  drawing  is 
lost  in  a  nonchalant  sensibilite,  and  in  which  the 
matiere  takes  on  interest  purely  as  a  stuff  or  sub- 
stance.    The  tactile  sense,  which  is  highly  devel- 


ART  AND  THE  INDIVIDUAL       285 

oped  in  even  the  most  intellectual,  will  be  found 
at  the  bottom  of  the  average  person's  idea  of  "ar- 
tistic." There  is  a  sensuous,  even  a  physically 
sensual,  appeal  in  those  objects  which  we  term 
"artistic" — a  desire  for  superficial  and  material 
beauty,  irrespective  of  representation  or  form. 


248. 

Deductible  Materiai.  in  Art. — "The  dignity 
of  art,"  said  Goethe,  "appears  to  the  greatest 
advantage  in  music,  because  that  art  contains  no 
material  to  be  deducted.  It  is  wholly  form  and 
intrinsic  value."  And  yet  what  bitter  objections 
are  raised  when  the  other  arts  attempt  to  attain 
to  the  aesthetic  dignity  of  music!  The  reason  is 
that  our  modern  critics,  reflecting  the  sentimental 
prejudices  of  their  inartistic  readers,  do  not  desire 
an  art  which  contains  no  material  to  be  deducted. 
Ignorant  of  "form  and  intrinsic  value,"  they  at- 
tribute the  whole  importance  of  art  to  the  very 
material  which  the  true  art  lover  deducts.  It  is 
this  nugatory  material  which  constitutes  our  crit- 
ics' chief  basis  of  judgment.  Even  in  the  case  of 
music,  instead  of  accepting  its  purity  of  fonn 
and  its  intrinsic  value,  the  critics  manufacture 
material  in  the  guise  of  symbolism,  atmosphere 
and  the  like,  and  thus  turn  a  dignified  art  into  a 
juvenile  literary  pastime. 


^86  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

249. 

Dilettanti. — Those  self-styled  art  lovers  who 
have  tired  of  the  familiarity  of  the  world's  great 
art — the  statues  of  Michelangelo,  the  paintings  of 
Rubens  and  Veronese,  the  symphonies  of  Beetho- 
ven and  Brahms — and  who  insist  that  they  have 
ceased  to  derive  pleasure  from  it,  have,  by  their 
own  confession  of  satiety,  failed  to  sound  the 
depths  of  great  art;  that  is,  they  have  never  re- 
acted to  it  empathically.  When  one  has  derived 
from  art  the  deepest  emotion  it  is  capable  of 
evoking,  it  becomes  a  constant  and  perpetual 
source  of  stimulation,  increasing,  rather  than  de- 
creasing, in  its  potency  the  longer  one  contem- 
plates it.  The  reason  for  this  is  that  the  final 
effect  of  an  aesthetic  creation  is  abstract:  great 
art  is  a  universal  experience,  changing  and  regu- 
lating itself  in  accord  with  the  intellectual  and 
physical  condition  of  the  individual.  It  is  an  ever 
new  and  shifting  cosmos — a  complete  revelation 
of  existence,  in  which  all  the  factors  of  conscious- 
ness are  present.  One  may  go  to  it  indefinitely 
for  reaction,  and  the  more  thoroughly  it  is  com- 
prehended, the  more  complete  and  satisfying  will 
be  the  reaction :  it  is  an  organic  stimulus.  When 
one  tires  of  a  piece  of  truly  exalted  art,  that  per- 
son has  reacted  only  to  its  superficial  side — its 
charm,  its  sensational  appeal,  its  melodic  import, 


ART  AND  THE  INDIVIDUAL        287 

its  mood,  its  story,  or  some  other  casually  pleas- 
ing aspect.  When  this  minor  phase  of  an  art 
work  has  been  completely  absorbed  and  experi- 
enced, it  becomes  uninteresting.  The  beholder  or 
auditor  then  repudiates  it, — that  is  only  natural. 
But  such  a  person  is,  almost  without  exception, 
one  who  disparages  exact  knowledge  in  aesthetics 
and  who  apotheosises  "feeling"  and  "personal 
taste."  Satiety  of  great  art  is  what  characterises 
and  defines  the  dilettante. 


250. 

The  Proper  Approach  to  Art. — One  should 
not  go  to  art  in  a  consciously  critical  mood,  but 
rather  with  a  mind  wholly  mobile  and  prepared  to 
take  on  the  form  of  the  work.  One's  reserva- 
tions should  be  only  those  dictated  by  a  knowl- 
edge of  what  is  irrelevant  to  a  work  of  art;  and 
even  that  knowledge  should  not  be  so  recently  ac- 
quired as  to  make  for  distinct  antagonism.  One 
must  remember  that  art,  like  life,  is  never  final, 
but  ever  in  a  state  of  becoming.  Therefore  a 
dogmatic  attitude  of  what  should  or  should  not 
be,  from  the  aesthetic  viewpoint,  lessens  complete 
enjoyment:  only  philosophic  impossibilities  should 
be  considered.  Before  a  piece  of  great  art  the 
dormant  mental  machinery  will  at  once  be  set  in 
action;  but,  if  the  mind  is  already  active,  only 


288  THE  CREATIVE  WILL 

chaos  will  result  from  its  coming  in  contact  with 
an  exterior  power. 

251. 

The  Intellect  in  Art. — Merely  to  jeel  art 
is  to  sink  to  the  plane  of  the  primitive  savage :  to 
recognise  art,  by  an  intellectual  process,  attests 
to  the  highest  degree  of  culture  to  which  man 
has  attained.  The  ignorant  and  unrefined  live  by 
their  instincts,  their  nervous  systems,  their  preju- 
dices and  sentimentalities.  The  intellectual  and 
cultured  man  is  controlled  by  constructive  think- 
ing, by  logic,  and  by  the  impersonal  recognition 
of  truth.  Genius  is  the  alliance  of  a  pure  sensi- 
tivity with  a  generating  intelligence;  and  it  can 
be  discerned  only  by  those  who  bring  to  it  the 
faculties  which  enter  into  its  making. 


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